


Time Slips Like a Bastard

by vanityofvanities



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: (eventually) - Freeform, AU (sort of), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon deviation, Evolving Tags, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Memory Alteration, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Third-person narration (subjective), Wingwoman Isabela, getting together fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2018-03-18 02:21:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 64,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3552428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanityofvanities/pseuds/vanityofvanities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As his dying act of retribution, Danarius gives Fenris everything he’s ever wanted: a world free of mages, magisters, and malificarum. It’s not much of an improvement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Place for Everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: themes of slavery and brief implication of past non-con/rape.

After gathering his nerve for perhaps a quarter of an hour, Anders casually strode up to Hawke's side and asked, in a low whisper, just what the hell they were doing.

Hawke accepted the question cheerfully, as she usually did, and deliberately interpreted it in the most literal possible terms. "Well, we're going to the Hanged Man, aren't we?" she said, smiling brightly and not bothering to match his hushed tones. "I could have sworn that I mentioned something about that before we left."

Anders sighed, rolling his eyes without any real malice, and pressed her further. "Yes, I did catch that bit, but  _why_?"

Hawke wished that she could muster enough irritation to summon a truly withering glare, but, as it was, she was distinctly aware of the impotence of her own expression. Anders stared flatly back at her, utterly undaunted, and waited for her to offer a more genuine reply. Relenting, she glanced back over her shoulder to make sure that neither Fenris nor Isabela were within earshot, then murmured, "Because he  _asked_  me to go with him. It's not as if I could refuse."

Anders shook his head, his brow furrowing with the annoyance that discussing Fenris always brought on. "He takes advantage of your partiality, you know."

She let out a soft burst of laughter. " _Everyone_  takes advantage of me, Anders. It's one of the few downsides of being so consistently chipper and aggressively helpful: people start to think that they can walk all over you." With a crooked smile, she added musingly, "But, then again, Fenris can do whatever he likes all over me and I won't complain."

"For an otherwise intelligent woman, you really do have the most appalling taste in men," he grimaced. "Or feral beasts, as the case may be."

Anders' final words, and the edge of bitterness to them, chafed slightly, but Hawke had long since learned that maintaining her amicable relationships with both Anders and Fenris meant tolerating a certain degree of acrimony between them. So, with a dismissive shrug and the faintest hint of a tight smile, she said, "He's my friend and he needs me; it's as simple is as that. Besides, it's not as though he makes more ridiculous demands than anyone else, yourself included." Anders exhaled sharply in indignation, but Hawke laughed before he could contradict her. "Oh, don't  _even_  look at me like that. Unless you imagine that I went frolicking about in search of Sela Petrae because of my deep and abiding love of being ankle-deep in shit."

Anders opened his mouth to form some sort of a denial, but his reply died on his tongue and came out as a rough sigh instead. "Alright, fair enough," he grumbled. "Though I doubt that you think of him as merely your  _friend_."

Hawke allowed herself to communicate with another shrug rather than bothering to form a verbal response. She hadn't quite discovered the secret to ridding her friends of their persistent misconceptions about her relationship with Fenris, but she'd found that her more strident objections only seemed to encourage them.

"I must admit, I was  _hoping_  for a denial," said Anders, after a brief stretch of Hawke's continued silence.

"There's nothing to deny," she replied, unable to entirely suppress the laughter brought on by the subtle disappointment in Anders' tone. "There hasn't been anything to deny for years." With a careless smile that seemed forced even to her, Hawke added, "I may not have the most flourishing of love-lives, but I haven't yet reached the point of desperation where I'm willing to pursue a man who hasn't showed the slightest indication of interest in me for three years. I'm not  _that_  pathetic." Hawke wished that there were more truth to her words. The fact the she was able to recall, almost to the day, how much time had passed since she and Fenris had been together was doing very little for her self-respect.

The slight awkwardness of the pause that followed her declaration seemed to indicate that Anders hadn't quite believed her, either. Still, he had the good grace not to press any further and, after a moment's lull, he said simply, "Well, good. That's good."

"If you say so," she mumbled, privately hoping that this thread of conversation had come to its natural close. Discussing whatever feelings she might still have for Fenris was never particularly constructive with any of her friends, but it was even less so with Anders. Much though she valued his opinion on other matters, she doubted his objectivity where the elf was concerned.

Hawke's diminishing interest in the subject at hand must have been evident, because Anders veered away from it swiftly, turning back towards his original line of questioning. "So, the reason you're accompanying Fenris to the Hanged Man is because he's your friend,  _apparently_ , and because he asked you?"

"That's about the size of it, yes."

"Which leads me to my question: why are  _we_  going? It strikes me as incredibly doubtful that Fenris would have asked specifically for Isabela and I to come along with you."

Hawke hesitated before answering, glancing back over her shoulder once more to ensure that the others had not developed a curiosity about what exactly she and Anders were discussing. It seemed, for the time being, that they were both suitably distracted. Isabela was continuing her game of slyly interrogating Fenris about the color of his underclothes and Fenris was busy walking the line between annoyance and amusement. While the pair of them exchanged playful barbs, Hawke turned back to Anders and said mutedly, "I want this to go well for him. I genuinely do. But, it strikes me as being awfully… fortuitous… that his  _long-lost sister_  has chosen to suddenly emerge from the woodwork."

"You don't think that it's really her?" Anders asked in a whisper, moving in closer to Hawke's side.

She shook her head, furrowing her brow thoughtfully. "That's not it, exactly. I believe Fenris when he says that his sources are reliable, but even he has some misgivings. And it  _is_  a bit difficult to believe that Danarius would simply  _forget_  that he had such an irresistible lure at his disposal." Hawke sighed, lifting her shoulders noncommittally, before adding, "Only a fool trusts a stranger, as they say, and, even if Fenris hadn't asked me along, I would never let him go into this meeting alone. If something happened and he was taken…." She cleared her throat and finished blithely, "Well, then I'd have to launch a time-consuming search-and-rescue and, as it is, I haven't the coin to fund an expedition that costly."

Anders let out a gust of a laugh. "So, it's a matter of financial responsibility, then?"

"It generally is, where I'm concerned, yes," she nodded. "And, as I said, it's just a favor to a friend."

"You're a better woman than he deserves," sighed Anders, shaking his head but letting his lips lift slightly at the corners.

"Well, obviously," she grinned, tossing her hair in a show of arrogance. Under other circumstances, she might have said that Fenris deserved happiness however and with whomever he chose, but it seemed like such trite remarks would fall on deaf ears just then. So, as elegantly as she could, Hawke steered the subject towards more comfortable ground. "Thank you, by the way," she said warmly, placing a gentle hand on Ander's shoulder. "For coming along, I mean. I know Fenris isn't your favorite person, but I appreciate your help. Believe me, there's no one I'd trust more to have my back."

Anders looked taken aback by the sudden shift in her tone, but his smile spread as he nodded in acknowledgment. "How could I refuse a favor to a friend?"

Hawke gave his shoulder a quick squeeze before letting her arm fall back to her side. "I'm going to go see how he's doing," she said, tilting her head back towards where Fenris was rolling his eyes at Isabela.

"I'd expect no less," muttered Anders as she fell away from his side. It was difficult to discern whether amusement or bitterness dominated his tone. Hawke bit her lower lip to keep from laughing at him.

Anders remained at the head of their small party as Hawke drifted towards the rear, attempting to appear casual as she did so. If Isabela's reaction was any indication, Hawke did not succeed in disguising her motives for suddenly changing direction. As Hawke approached, Isabela, who had her arm slung chummily over Fenris' shoulders, raised her eyebrows pointedly before looking rapidly between Hawke and the elf, her lips twisting in a knowing smirk. Hawke rolled her eyes as Isabela threw her a lusty wink and, pulling away from Fenris, flounced off towards Anders after offering only the thinnest of explanations for her abrupt departure.

Over the past three years, Hawke had tried everything imaginable to convince her friends of the fact that she no longer harbored romantic feelings for Fenris. None of them believed her, of course, and, while all of them made insinuations, Isabela seemed the least burdened with subtlety.

For the most part, Hawke found it all fairly amusing. That particular afternoon, however, some unknown turning of her mind made her slightly more susceptible to the pangs of discomfort she sometimes felt regarding her situation with Fenris. Perhaps it was only that she found herself recalling the vulnerability in his eyes when he had spoken of his sister. Perhaps it was that the scent of the summer air had the same note of spices that it had had the night Fenris had come to her home, agitated and beautiful as he let her lead him to her bed. Perhaps she had simply grown tired of saying, time and time again, that she felt nothing more for him than friendship. Whatever the exact configuration of the sentiment was, Hawke felt a small, sharp stab of longing as Fenris lifted his gaze and, with a lopsided quirk of his lips that anyone else might have missed, smiled at her.

Most days, she felt unbelievably lucky to have him for a friend. More often than not, she thought that there was nothing in the world that could improve upon the fact that he trusted her, felt free to laugh with her, and confided in her when he would not with anyone else. Most of the time, she was perfectly content with their current arrangement. But then he'd smile and some small, traitorous part of her would ache. It was all very annoying and she really would have hoped to be over this nonsense by now.

The dull pain of longing soon receded, however, falling once more into the background noise of Hawke's consciousness. With the matter at hand returning to the forefront of her mind, she could turn her attention fully towards Fenris and the palpable waves of tension that were practically rolling off his drooped shoulders. When she spoke, however, her words were less focused than her thoughts.

"So, it's a nice day, isn't it?" she said inanely, glancing around the streets of Lowtown without the slightest intention of noticing anything in particular about their surroundings. "Birds chirping, beggars begging, wild dogs roving through the streets unchecked. Nature's a wonder, isn't it?"

Fenris lifted his head, meeting Hawke's gaze more steadily, and let out a rough breath of a laugh that sounded more like a cough than anything else. He clearly anticipated the direction the conversation was heading and, rather than forcing Hawke through the awkward process of artlessly inquiring after his wellbeing, he got to the heart of the matter. "If you're checking up on me, there's no need," he told her simply.

"Oh, there isn't?" she said with exaggerated relief. "Well, then I was concerned over nothing. I suppose you'd rather that I just leave you alone. I'll go, shall I? Talk to Anders instead?" She sped her pace, moving to leave Fenris behind.

Fenris' smile broadened. "I wouldn't dream of subjecting you to that," he said wryly, placing his hand lightly on her wrist to keep her from moving forward. Hawke grinned and fell into a slow, easy pace at his side as Isabela and Anders moved onwards, expanding the distance between the two pairs.

"Carver and I don't get on very well," Hawke said abruptly, after she and Fenris had walked in silence for a moment. He seemed surprised by the incongruity of her remark, but Hawke continued on in spite of it. "We never did, even before the whole templar business, which, as you can imagine, hasn't improved our relationship." Fenris stared at her, his brow furrowing, as if his attempts to discern her meaning were leading only to confusion. She cleared her throat delicately before drawing nearer to her point. "Of course, we love each other; it's in the blood, I suppose. It's not always easy, but we're family."

"Ah," said Fenris, breaking eye contact as he bowed his head and began to stare fixedly at his toes. "So, your counsel is for me to moderate my expectations?"

"No," she said hurriedly, "I expressed myself poorly. I only meant to say that, even if things seem a bit awkward at first, or if it turns out differently than you expected, then there's no reason to be discouraged. It will be alright, even if it takes time and effort. The love is always there, and that's what matters." It wasn't exactly what she had intended to say. She had meant say something far more pessimistic, and, yes, she hadn't wanted him to have high expectations that might be met with disappointment. Somewhere along the way, however, she had lost focus and she wasn't quite sure how that had happened. When she finished speaking, however, Fenris was smiling faintly, so perhaps erring on the side of optimism hadn't been an altogether bad thing.

"The reassurance is appreciated, Hawke," he told her, his voice low and his gaze tilted downwards, "but it's unnecessary. I happen to be entirely calm at the moment."

Hawke refrained from making a sharp sound of incredulity, though she could not keep herself from arching a brow at him as she suppressed a small smile. "How long have we been friends, Fenris?" she asked conversationally.

He glanced up at her, a teasing spark of levity in his eyes as he said dryly, "I wasn't aware we were."

Hawke grinned, punching Fenris' shoulder without any real force. "Keep that up, and we won't be." Fenris lifted his shoulders carelessly, clearly unperturbed by the idle threat. Hawke allowed herself to enjoy the momentary softening of his expression before adding more seriously, "The point is that we've known each other for a while now. Long enough that I think I can interpret your facial expressions with some degree of accuracy." Hawke spoke evenly, careful to keep her voice free from any intonation that might be interpreted as pity. She'd made the mistake of being overly compassionate in the past. Fenris had not taken to it kindly. "And right now, Fenris, you're wearing that familiar expression of yours that tells me you're about to hurl a bottle of very expensive wine at the wall. Metaphorically, of course, but the point stands." Fenris rolled his eyes at that, but he didn't seem to have taken any offense, and so she continued, perhaps a bit gently, "I thought I might as well tell you, just in case you needed to hear it, that it's going to be fine. Whatever happens, whatever she's like, whatever she helps you to remember, I'll be at your side. Whatever you need."

He looked at her from the corner of his eye and, after a pregnant moment of silence, opened his mouth as if to say something. He decided against it, however, letting out a wordless gust of air instead. Another silent moment passed before, with a faint smile, he made another attempt. "Thank you, Hawke." The words sounded somewhat strained, as though he would have liked to say something else, but he appeared to be sincere nevertheless.

"Anytime."

She pressed no further, then, letting him drift into his own thoughts again. Fenris seemed less preoccupied than before, though he still didn't seem in the proper state to carry on easy conversation. There was no tension in the silence, however, and, all things considered, their stroll towards the Hanged Man was an almost pleasant one. Unintentionally, Hawke and Fenris slowed to nearly an amble, drifting near enough to one another that, once or twice, the back of her hand grazed inadvertently against his.

Their pace, however, was unacceptable to the others members of their small band. "Hurry it up, you two!" shouted Isabela, who was quite a ways ahead at this point and walking backwards as she called out to them. "I'll have you know that I interrupted a perfectly lovely afternoon at the Blooming Rose for this, and I'd like to get back to it  _some_ time this century. So, if it's not too much to ask that you two move at a pace that isn't entirely glacial…."

Hawke smiled sheepishly at Fenris before shouting out her apologies to Isabela. The space between them quickly closed, the four of them moving in a unified cluster as they rounded the final corners on their way through Lowtown. The final paces to the Hanged Man, however, were slowed once more. There was a degree of awkwardness, with three pairs of eyes surreptitiously observing Fenris while he pretended not to notice the scrutiny.

"You're ready?" asked Hawke, though her inflection was more fitting of a statement than a question.

Fenris nodded, his lips compressed into a tight line as he visibly steeled himself for what awaited him on the other side of the tavern door. "No point in drawing it out," he said roughly, reaching out and pulling open the door without any further preamble. Delay would only provide opportunity for his anxiety to intensify.

The dim light of the Hanged Man was jarring after having spent so long under the golden light of afternoon. Of course, it was always a bit of a shock to the senses to enter the Hanged Man. The pungent stink of unwashed flesh, sour vomit, and cheap ale. The vaguely sticky feel to every sullied surface, including but certainly not limited to the floor. The cacophony of drunken laughter, bawdy chatter, and energetic gossip. It could be downright overwhelming, at times.

On that particular day, however, it seemed as though the energy of the place had shifted. There was something subtle but distinctly wrong in the feeling of the air. It was odd, the silence of the place, the absence of resident drunkards, and something indefinable but distinct that sent a shiver of adrenaline through Hawke as the door swung shut behind her.

There was a girl, pale and red-haired and almost entirely dissimilar to Fenris is appearance were it not for the elven features. At the sound of footsteps approaching, she lifted her gaze and it was then that Hawke saw the similarity between the girl and her brother in those wide, luminous green eyes. There were ghosts shadowing those eyes, as there were in Fenris', but there was something else as well. Hawke furrowed her brow, trying to discern what it was exactly.

"It really is you," the girl said without rising from her chair. There was something resigned in her posture and a note of melancholy in her voice.

Fenris walked ahead of Hawke, ahead of all the others, as he drew closer to the table where his sister sat. "Varania?" he breathed, his voice touched with a strained awe. "I… I remember you." His words, his expression, his every movement, spoke to the strength of his emotion. Emotion that his sister seemed curiously without. "We played in our master's courtyard while mother worked. You called me…."

"Leto," said Varania softly, completing his thought. "That's your name."

As she spoke, she rose from her chair at last, the movement weary and slow.

It dawned on Hawke what was in Varania's eyes that Fenris' lacked, why her body and her movements seemed oddly burdened. It was resignation, surrender.

It was no longer only Hawke who was aware of the oddity of Varania's manner. Fenris took a step closer to his sister, his head tilting slightly to the side as he observed her with careful curiosity. "What's wrong? Why are you so…?"

He drifted off, searching for and failing to find the words to adequately describe what was off-putting about her behavior. Hawke watched him, watched the confusion cross his expression. She, however, felt no surprise, only a dull, throb of heartache for the pain she knew Fenris would soon feel.

She had wanted to warn him, to protect him from the pain of disappointed hopes. She'd learned this lesson enough times herself. That once someone is lost, they never come back. And, if by some miracle, they do return, they're never the same as they once were. She hadn't returned from the Deep Roads to find the loving arms of her brother; she had met a stranger, a Templar. She hadn't even been able to hold her mother's true body, so altered was it by the time they were reunited. People, no matter how loved, had a way of changing beyond recognition. Varania was no longer the little girl playing in her master's garden; she was a snake amongst its grasses. Maker forbid that Fenris should be allowed this one good thing. Maker forbid that just one person should be allowed to keep someone they loved.

Hawke took a step closer to Fenris' side, an ache welling in the pit of her stomach as she saw that he had not yet realized what Varania had done or why she was hunched with defeat. "Fenris," said Hawke urgently, "we have to get out of here."

He didn't look towards her when she spoke and, indeed, it didn't seem as though he had heard her at all. Fenris' eyes lifted over Varania's shoulder, turning towards the dark figure of a man who was languidly descending the staircase. He moved sinuously, his face already written with the assumption of his imminent victory. He was flanked on either side by guards, their faces concealed by their helms and their protective shells of splintmail shining dully in the faint light of the tavern. Fenris' gaze never strayed to the guards; he never looked away from the smug face of the man who was at their head.

Hawke watched Fenris' eyes widened with a fusion of shock and horror, and any uncertainty she might have had about the identity of the newcomer was firmly removed. A mage who radiated a power so potent that Hawke could practically feel it vibrating in her own skin. A man whose mere presence cast Fenris' expression with a naked vulnerability that Hawke had never seen there before. A monster and a magister. Danarius.

"Ah, my little Fenris," the magister said smoothly, his lips twisting into cruel smirk. "Predictable as always."

Varania bowed her head, her eyes downcast as Danarius and his guards came to stand alongside her. "I'm sorry it came to this, Leto."

Her softly murmured words of contrition pulled Fenris from the trance of his horror. He lunged towards her, furious as he snarled, "You led him here."

"Now, now, Fenris. Don't blame your sister," said Danarius with the tone of an even-tempered parent burdened with two quarreling children. "She did what any good Imperial citizen should."

"I never wanted these filthy markings, Danarius!" hissed Fenris, his body tensing visibly, seeming to curl inwards in preparation for attack. "But I won't let you kill me to get them."

Danarius chuckled at that, though whether he derived his dark amusement from Fenris' rage or from the words themselves, Hawke couldn't tell. "Oh, how little you know, my pet," Danarius said, his voice still colored with sickening delight. Driven by protective impulse, Hawke drew still closer to Fenris' side. Her movement, slight though it was, drew Danarius' attention, and his smile widened as he trailed his eyes over her with a slow, sweeping glance. "And this is your new mistress, then? The Champion of Kirkwall? Quite lovely."

"Fenris doesn't  _belong_  to anyone," she returned disdainfully, her grip tightening reflexively around the staff she clutched in her hands.

"Do I detect a note of jealously?" sneered Danarius, arching a brow as he glanced between Fenris and Hawke. "It's not surprising. The lad is rather  _skilled_ , isn't he?"

Fenris' reaction was immediate, the lyrium in his skin blazing suddenly into life with the force of his anger. Hawke bowed her head, only for a moment, as she fought back a deep, visceral stab of pain. Danarius' suggestion of jealously, the oily glide of the word 'skilled' as it left his mouth, the intensity of Fenris' response to Danarius' words. It was enough to confirm what she had long suspected. She exhaled roughly, feeling the swell of her magic coursing impatiently through her veins.

"Shut your mouth, Danarius!" spat Fenris, brilliant and flaring with power as he began to advance on the magister.

Danarius had the audacity to seem exasperated, heaving out a sigh as he said wearily, "The word is ' _master_ '."

As his men advanced, Danarius fell back behind the line of their defenses. Hawke watched Fenris charge forward to meet the assault and, raising her own staff, smiled.

Hawke didn't rejoice in death, or in the act of killing, but, in the throes of combat, things were always clear. She could release the ache of sympathy she felt for Fenris, dismiss the hatred she felt for the people responsible for his suffering, and feel nothing but the unwavering, straightforward drive to survive. It was in such moments, with her adrenaline pumping and her enemy before her, that Hawke felt most at ease with herself. There was no self-doubt, no loneliness, no longing. There was only the base, primal dance along the line that separated the living from the dead. It was in the simplicity of that distinction that she found clarity.

Naturally, this had not always been the case. When she was younger, Hawke had faced conflict with the anxiety that was to be expected of one who is unaccustomed to physical confrontation. For all her confidence in her own abilities, she had been untested and, before coming to Kirkwall, she had always fought alone. The passage of nearly seven years had seen inexperience hardened into a practiced resolve, and had provided enough trusted allies that Hawke no longer faced any enemy without the aid of able hands.

This was hardly the first time that Hawke, Fenris, Anders, and Isabela had fought alongside one another and, as such, their unit had a cohesion that Danarius and his guards lacked. It was evident, in the uncoordinated assaults that the magister's forces presented, that his men lacked the same level of familiarity with one another that Hawke had with her allies. Perhaps they were skilled, as was Danarius, but they were inefficient and lacked unity, and, as time wore on, their numbers thinned quickly. Danarius supplemented his losses with flurries of summoned demons, but, for all the confusion and chaos that they brought to the fight, the disorganization of their attacks rendered them rather more ineffectual than the magister had likely intended.

Hawke had grown up hearing about the legendary power of Tevinter's mages. She had heard of their mastery of obscure magics and abilities that no southern mage, hobbled by Chantry superstition, would ever be able to access. It was a relief to find that, in spite of all the glory ascribed to the Imperium and its magisters, Danarius was still just a mortal man. He could pant, and sweat, and feel the strain of flagging mana, like any other mage when faced with an opponent who was more than their equal.

But, at just the point when a few well-chosen attacks would have finally ended Danarius, Hawke lowered her staff, as did Anders. Likewise, Isabela, who had just felled a demon, made no move to approach the crumpled figure of the weakened magister. There was, amongst them, a tacit agreement that Danarius' life was not theirs to take. It seemed right, and infinitely just, that the final blow should belong to Fenris.

The lyrium that lined Fenris' skin was still bright as he moved in swift strides towards Danarius. On the floor, beside the ash of a fallen rage demon, Fenris' sword lay forgotten. Hawke thought that perhaps she understood why Fenris, after so long running from a memory, would want to feel the last beating of Danarius' heart with his own hands.

At Fenris' approach, Danarius made a weak attempt to push himself up from the floor. It was a wasted effort, only serving to allow an oozing curl of intestine to spill free of a deep gash in his side. Lying there in a growing pool of his own blood, it wouldn't be long before Danarius succumbed to his wounds, but the magister wasn't fated for such a drawn-out end. Fenris closed the distance between them, leaning in close to grip Danarius' jaw, wrenching it harshly so that the magister was forced to meet his gaze.

"You are no longer my master," snarled Fenris, sliding his hand down to Danarius' throat and clasping it tightly. With that firm purchase, Fenris rose slowly to his feet, dragging Danarius upright by his neck. Danarius staggered, teetering on the tips of his toes as Fenris increased the pressure on his windpipe. Hawke watched as Danarius' face reddened, his eyes watering as he struggled to breathe, as though breath would be enough to save him.

Blood gurgled from Danarius' mouth as he managed to choke out a ragged cough. The sound was rough, strained beneath Fenris' grip, but, just as Fenris hauled Danarius higher from the ground, the cough broke into a hysterical torrent of laughter. It was quiet, barely discernable over the wheeze of his wet exhalations, but, nonetheless, the laughter was distinct. The abruptness of the sound seemed to catch Fenris off-guard and, almost imperceptibly, his grip loosened, allowing Danarius just enough air to rasp, "Do you still not understand it, my pet?"

Danarius had chosen his words well. There was promise in them, a teasing allusion to the memories that Fenris had lost. It was enough give Fenris pause, to make him hesitate in putting that last, crushing pressure on Danarius' throat. Another broken laugh rattled from the magister's throat, his sneer peeling back from blood-reddened teeth. "I will always be your master," he coughed, forcing the words out in a rapid, frantic stream. "You whimper, you whine about wanting to be free of me, but you fought to be mine. You killed for the privilege, killed for the honor of it."

Blood sprayed from his mouth, flecks of it dappling Fenris' clenched hand, but Danarius radiated self-satisfaction, grin widening with each moment of hesitation that his words caused. "My little wolf, so hungry," he wheezed, lifting his hands to claw his along Fenris' arm. "Hungry for power, starving for just a taste of what I had to offer. My power, my magic, my markings—you were aching for it. Always aching for more. Just like me. You blame the marks, blame the magisters, blame the magic, but you were  _always_ going to be mine."

Danarius' fingernails bit down harshly against the tender skin on the inside of Fenris' wrist, but whatever pain that was caused by the slight rending of flesh did nothing to pry Fenris off his throat. On the contrary, the mocking tumble of Danarius' speech finally seemed to have driven Fenris past breaking. Hawke watched as Danarius' eyes began to protrude from his head, the capillaries bursting and speckling his once-white sclera with pools of lurid red. She watched as his tongue lolled from between his lips, a gagging sound like a scream torn from his throat as Fenris lifted him fully from the ground. She was so consumed with watching Fenris finally putting an end to Danarius' miserable life that she didn't even notice the light pooling where the magister's hands were pressed to Fenris' skin.

It seemed to take Fenris by surprise as well, the flare of light that exploded suddenly where Danarius was clutching tightly around his wrist. "You'll never be free of me," Danarius hissed, the choked words audible only to Fenris. "I'm  _inside_  you. Under your skin."

It happened all at once: the lyrium imbedded in Fenris' skin burning with a searing brilliance, Danarius' sharp rasp of triumphant laughter, the scream of pain that tore from Fenris' throat.

Hawke knew that she must have shouted Fenris' name as she lunged forward, but all she could hear were his agonized screams as he doubled over in pain, losing his hold on Danarius. The contact was unbroken, however, with Danarius still grasping onto Fenris, the lyrium's light seeming to surge from Fenris' skin into Danarius hands. Hawke was still too far off to intervene, but she could still feel the charge of mana welling, stronger than anything she'd ever sensed before.

She was closer, close almost enough to break Danarius away from lyrium that he was somehow channeling into himself, when the air began to burn white with a light so intense that Hawke had to lift a hand to shield her eyes. The crackle of magic was almost deafening as she fought her way forward, feeling as though her skin were being torn apart by needles of electricity. It was driving into her, closing around her, consuming her in the brilliant, burning glare. "Fenris!" she screamed, panicked, as she tried to follow the sound of his cries.

It was useless. The sharp prickling of magic was too much against her skin, piercing into every inch of her. The lyrium's flare was too disorienting, robbing her of sight and sense as she closed her eyes, unable to endure the blinding light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is inspired by a lovely song by Carla Bruni (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EC7Re8cczj0). Of course, I have the title in English.


	2. Bright Lights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mentions of canon character deaths. 
> 
> Content warning: Depression.

Hawke opened her eyes, blinking wearily against the overly bright light of her computer screen. Those damn things never did seem to go dim enough. Of course, the manufacturers probably hadn't intended for their product to be stared at for three straight hours without intermission. Clearly a gap in their understanding of the consumer. Or at least their understanding of consumers who were at home in the middle of the day, hunkered down in a dark room with nothing better to do than glower at a computer screen for hours on end.

Rubbing at her eyelids, Hawke watched the scattered spots of red light that danced into life at the pressure of her fingertips. There was something so disorienting about being home in the middle of the day. Without a steady job or a fixed schedule of any kind, it was all too easy to lose track of time. If someone had asked her moments earlier, she'd be lucky if she would be able to tell them what hour it was. Hell, she'd be lucky if she'd be able to remember the day of the week. Time was always slipping away like that.

It didn't help that her bedroom was utterly without natural light. The gray haze outside her single, solitary window was the same in the morning as it was in the evening, and there wasn't exactly a great deal of variety at any other time of day. Trying to judge the passage of time by that alone was like trying to gauge the contents of the ocean by filling up a thimble.

What it all amounted to was that she needed to get outside. Too much time in front of her computer, too much time without sunshine, and it was clearly having an adverse effect on her mental health. Her mother probably would have justly delivered one of those famous lectures about the importance of vitamin D.

Hawke rose from her chair quickly, managing to knock her knee against the underside of her desk in her haste. Sputtering out a rapid series of curses against every deity she could think of, she attempted to massage away the already dulling pain while simultaneously scanning every flat surface for her cellphone.

She discovered it under the bed, though it was anyone's guess as to how it had ended up there. Gravity was a force to be reckoned with, apparently.

People never called her. Well, they rarely called her. And, on those rare occasions when her phone vibrated with an incoming call, it was never anyone she wanted to hear from. She'd fallen out of touch with almost everyone from university even before leaving Ferelden. There'd been circumstances, of course. Challenges back home had made interacting with people as she once had seem all but impossible. By the time she moved to Kirkwall, the only people who still kept in touch were men who periodically tried to initiate an exchange of overtly sexual texts. Hawke no longer reciprocated in kind, but she still found pictures of hard, leaking cocks in her inbox at three in the morning. Less often, of late, but those texts were still her most frequent form of contact with old friends and acquaintances.

Carver never called, of course. She didn't expect him to.

Which is why, even before unlocking her phone, Hawke knew that the blinking alert was nothing to get excited about. As she'd expected, it was from the Gopher-It! app. Just a confirmation that the terms she'd suggested for an assignment had been accepted by the original poster. Hawke groaned, throwing her phone down onto the bed before beginning the search for the vivid tangerine shirt that Gophers were required to wear while running errands.

Gopher-It! was, perhaps, the most ludicrous thing Hawke had ever associated with in the name of improving her financial standing. The premise was simple enough, really. People—typically people with full-time jobs and even fuller schedules—used the app to post errands that they were willing to pay someone else to undertake on their behalf. It was generally straightforward: picking up clothes from the cleaners, grocery shopping, going on condom runs to the pharmacy. There were all number of menial tasks out there just waiting for one of the many background-checked and identity-confirmed Gophers to complete.

Hawke was one such Gopher. It was hard not to be a bit bitter about that fact as she exchanged her perfectly normal shirt for an orange tee with a huge, cartoon rodent across the breast. Still, it wasn't as though Kirkwall offered infinite job opportunities for outsiders. Hostility towards Fereldans had cooled considerably over the past few years, but tensions were far from being obliterated altogether. Hawke had learned to be flexible when it came to earning her money. Constantly patrolling the Gopher-It! postings may not have been the most glamorous way to pay her share of the rent, but it was something.

That day in particular wasn't terrible. Just letting herself into someone's apartment with a hidden key and taking their dog out for a walk. Hawke wondered sometimes about the sort of person who would trust a complete stranger with both their key and their pet. Of course, Gopher-It! assured it's users that the Gophers had all passed a rigorous screening process, but it still seemed reckless. She could be a kleptomaniac, for all they knew. Or a nefarious dognapper. She could be anyone, anything. But a surprising number of people didn't trouble themselves with those sorts of concerns. They just wanted things done. They just wanted to throw money at a chore and make it disappear.

For which Hawke was grateful, really. It meant that she got to spend an hour in the warm sunshine with a dog that was, quite frankly, adorable. The fluffy little hairball was nowhere near as precious as Hannibal, her own dog, but Hawke was admittedly bias where her mabari was concerned. Mabaris were a brilliant and long-lived breed and Hawke had practically grown-up alongside her family's pet.

She hadn't seen him in almost three years. Not since she'd left home.

Leaving Ferelden hadn't been something she'd undertaken lightly. She had never considered leaving; she had never thought of it as a possibility. Perhaps, when she was very young, Hawke had imagined leaving Lothering behind, but her father's deteriorating mental health had freed her of those notions. Hawke had matured quickly, accepting adult responsibilities and shouldering some of the burden of holding the household together. Her mother had been grateful for the support and Hawke, as the eldest child, had always viewed caring for the family as a duty which should naturally fall to her. She had never considered it to be a burden; she had considered it her purpose.

Without family, without anyone to care for, Hawke had felt lost. And it was worse to be lost in Ferelden, a place which ought to feel familiar. A place that ought to feel like home. She had thought that it would be better somewhere else. Somewhere where she at least expected to feel lost.

There had been nothing difficult in leaving Carver. He had already applied to the Academy and had been away at school for some years prior, so there were no particularly thick ties to sever where he was concerned. It had been hard to leave Hannibal, though. Hawke loved that dog.

She might have taken him, but it seemed cruel to lock a beast that size away all day in a tiny apartment. It seemed kinder to place him in the loving care of someone who might actually offer him a good home. Hawke wasn't on particularly good terms with anyone on her mother's side of family, but she had heard that one of her distant cousins owned a mabari as well and would be familiar with their proper care and treatment. Hannibal had gotten on well enough with Barkspawn, Solona's mabari, so the arrangement hadn't presented any difficulties.

A few weeks back, Hawke had gotten an email from Solona with an attached photo of Hannibal and Barkspawn posing proudly beside their first litter of pups. So, everything had evidently worked out for the best.

Sometimes, Hawke thought about getting herself a new, slightly smaller dog. Perhaps one a bit more substantial than the dog she'd been hired to take out for a walk, but some mid-sized breed might suit her well enough. There were times, particularly on chilly nights, when she missed having the heft of a warm, furry animal to curl up against. Of course, it still struck her that it was somewhat imprudent to actually bring an animal into her home when there was the ever-present chance that she might soon find herself in a more time-consuming line of work. It wasn't an  _outstanding_  chance, given that her current CV read a bit like a frantic cut-and-paste exercise assembled by a felon, or some other equally unemployable person. It certainly didn't look like the sort of thing that an emotionally stable, rent-paying citizen would hand over to a potential employer. Even so, Hawke figured she should put off adopting a dog until she could be relatively assured that she would have the time and means to provide for its adequate care.

She satisfied herself, for the time being, by devoting her attention to the scampering bit of fluff that was prancing along the sidewalk with all the exuberance of an animal that hadn't defecated in the outdoors for some time.

Though it wasn't strictly necessary, Hawke escorted the tiny creature towards one of nicer dog parks in the city, though it was a bit out of the way. As far as Hawke knew, the district colloquially referred to as "the Heights" was a bit out of  _everyone's_  way, as she had yet to meet a single human person with the funds to live there. There were houses, to be sure, high on the hills overlooking the rest of the city and the water that lay past the wharfs, but the property taxes were so prohibitive that Hawke couldn't fully imagine the sort of person who could amass, into one bank account, such a massive amount of money. Star athletes, perhaps, or television personalities, but why anyone of note or means would choose to live in Kirkwall, of all places, was beyond her. Though she supposed that real, flesh-and-blood people  _must_  live there, because there were dog parks, and coffee shops, and markets that sold organic toilet paper. Even the coffee was out of Hawke's range, but the parks, mercifully, were free.

Gaspard, which was the rather cruel name the poor dog had been saddled with, couldn't be trusted to roam about the park without wearing his leash, but he still seemed to enjoy himself. Hawke ensured that he got to sniff about underneath every mildly interesting bush before leading him back down towards his master's apartment complex.

Though Hawke hadn't troubled herself to rush the walk, it was still only the middle of the afternoon by the time she'd bid an affectionate farewell to Gaspard, who had licked her with such enthusiasm that she had felt momentarily tempted to reexamine her stance of dognapping. Ultimately, however, she was left unburdened by either a stolen dog or anything to do with the remainder of her time until evening.

It was a simple enough thing to perform a few more errands. There was nothing quite as agreeable as taking someone's pet out for a pleasant stroll, but Hawke managed to find a few tasks that weren't too objectionable. Retrieving a large order of food from a Rivaini restaurant that allowed for carry-out without an option for delivery, carting twelve piping-hot lattes to a group of business school brats who had taken it upon themselves to gather ostentatiously in Woodrow Park while dressed in three-piece suits, going to a dry-cleaners to pick up someone's thick, goose-down duvet.

Dealing with the duvet was by far the most annoying of the tasks, given that it was too heavy to be carried without the aid of public transportation. Remaining upright while attempting to keep a firm grasp on a giant, feathery monstrosity was much more difficult than Hawke had anticipated and, more than once, she found herself jostled into the lap of a fellow passenger. Even when she was on steady footing, the looks that people gave her seemed to suggest that they had never once seen another human being attempting to transport something that was even remotely ungainly. In an immature moment that Hawke wasn't particularly proud of, she stuck her tongue out at a good-looking, red-haired man who'd had the audacity to lift his eyebrows at her.

After delivering the duvet into the waiting arms of a decidedly apathetic twenty-something in bright purple skinny jeans, Hawke decided that perhaps she'd had enough of Gopher-It! for the day. Within walking distance of her apartment, there was an extremely subpar coffee house that she patronized for no other reason than proximity. Though Lirene's Refuge boasted burnt coffee, undercooked and undersweetened pastries, and a restroom that smelled perpetually of sick, it was the only coffee shop within seven blocks. The purchase of any hot beverage also bought the password to the secure internet connection, so it seemed as good a place as any to settle in for a while before returning home. Typically, Hawke preferred to take one of the seats near the window, so that she could distract herself by observing pedestrians. As luck would have it, however, those coveted seats were already occupied, and Hawke was left with a table at the center of the room and nothing more to divert her than what little entertainment she could derive from scrolling through social networking sites on her phone.

Hawke wasn't really sure why she kept any of her accounts; she hadn't updated a single one of them since her mother died. She viewed the photos of former friends with the same detached curiosity that one might expect to feel while flipping through a magazine at the checkout counter. She had the suspicion that encouraging any deeper investment would only end in disaster. Those connections had fallen by the wayside for good reason, she suspected, and there was no sense reawakening old ties or sentiments after so much passed time. Still, there was something a little mindboggling in seeing once-loved friends grinning beside spouses she had never met. There was something strange in seeing gold bands around the fingers of men whom she'd once sworn she loved. It was bizarre, also, to see how many people her age—people who had once thrown up on her carpet and gotten tattoos of beavers—now had children. It was all very off-putting.

Hawke closed out of the many applications without bothering to post any cursory form of approbation. Honestly, at this point, it would probably be less than meaningless to anyone if she happened to press a heart icon beneath one of their photos. As fruitless gestures went, offering somewhat impersonal approval to an acquaintance's post was not altogether demanding, but there was always the lingering threat that someone might try to renew their correspondence based on so slight an overture. It was too great a risk.

The odd thing was that, for as few ties and Hawke maintained with Ferelden, she still thought of it quite often. In the streets of the crowded city, she found herself, sometimes, casting a searching eye over the strange faces as though she might catch sight of one that was familiar. During the short walk home, she caught herself doing a double-take when she saw a flash of platinum hair rushing past on a bicycle. But whatever feeling of recognition she'd felt must have been something else altogether; there was no one she knew in Kirkwall. Not on any sort of intimate level, anyway. In spite of that conscious knowledge, however, she continued to spot people whom she was sure she recognized from university or Lothering or from some other place that she couldn't quite pinpoint. It was nonsense, considering that she'd come to this city specifically because of the marked absence of anyone she might know. Bit daft, really, to always be scanning the crowd for a face she might remember.

Of course, there weren't really that many people on the sidewalks at that hour. There were a few people getting off work and the streets were starting to fill with commuter cars, but the ranks of pedestrians were actually quite thin. Though it was the start of the weekend, there were still a few hours until sunset, and, particularly during the warmer months, it seemed that people didn't truly start up with their cavorting until after dark.

It was already dark inside Hawke's building, however. Whoever had designed the building had been extremely conservative with their use of windows and, on the ground floor, there was just one small, grimy plate of glass that was almost wholly obscured by an unused bike rack. When Hawke had first moved in, she'd found the perpetual night of the lobby somewhat depressing, but, after the first few months, she'd stopped noticing it. A far greater annoyance was the fact that it was nearly impossible to get through to the elevator without running into the terrifying boy-child whose family lived in the apartment above hers. For whatever reason, he seemed to be forever hovering near the bank of mailboxes, sitting on a small, yellow tricycle and staring out menacingly from beneath a thick fringe of black bangs.

While attempting to edge past the boy so that she could get her mail, Hawke offered him a casual greeting. As expected, he said nothing in return. Throughout their many years of residence within the same building, Hawke had only ever heard the boy's voice when he was busy pitching raucous, ear-splitting fits in the room just above her bed. She wasn't even quite sure that he understood what she was saying, as both his parents spoke with heavy Orlesian accents. Hawke wasn't on particularly good terms with them, either, considering that their only interactions with one another had been due to Hawke's roommate playing her music too loudly.

Hawke's roommate was seldom in the apartment, but, when she was, it was almost always to do something too loudly.

In spite of this, Charade was a better roommate than Hawke had ever hoped for. They'd met just after Hawke's mother died, when Charade and her father had come to Ferelden for the funeral. Hawke had never met her Uncle Gamlen before, which actually put her on much the same footing as Charade, who had only just met the man herself. The two girls had bonded quickly, both of them seeking familial bonds superior to the ones they already had, and, before the end of the wake, Charade had offered Hawke the spare bedroom in her apartment.

Though the apartment did leave a bit to be desired, Hawke found that the benefits of living with her cousin outweighed the defects. Charade was meticulously tidy, always kept the freezer stocked with pineapple popsicles, and, improving the arrangement still further, was always willing to cover Hawke's share of the rent when she was short a month's payment. Charade had never explicitly stated how it was that she always seemed to have money to spare, but Hawke could still hazard a few educated guesses as to what her cousin did for a living. For one thing, everyone called her "Charade", and, for another, she kept an erratic schedule of mostly night hours. The large tub of body glitter beneath the bathroom sink was also somewhat illuminating.

When Hawke unlocked the door to their apartment, the lights were off and it was clear that Charade was still out.

Usually, Hawke liked the solitude that came with having a roommate who had both a demanding job and an active social life. There was no one to whom she had to justify herself, no one to ask questions about her day that would be difficult or depressing to answer. It was easier. Still, there were days when she thought it might be nice to come home to find the lights already on and an open bottle of wine waiting for her. On occasion, it might be welcome to discuss the banal frivolities of life over warm red and cheap, microwavable dinners. But, most nights, Hawke cooked dinner for herself with a bottle of wine that she never meant to finish on her own, but almost always did.

Hawke opted to forgo dinner that evening, settling instead for uncorking a bottle of $5.00 wine that she'd bought marked down from $10.00. She'd filled her first glass and was waiting for the tannins to settle a bit when, after toying with her phone for a moment, she gave into impulse and called the second number on her speed dial.

After three rings, a gruff voice answered. "What?"

Hawke swirled the wine in her glass. "Hey, Carver, it's your sister."

"Yeah, I saw on the ID. What's up?"

As it rounded the glass, a bit of wine sloshed over the rim, dripping down to form a purple ring on the countertop. Hawke stepped away from the glass, leaning back against the fridge with her head back and her eyes closed. "Nothing. I was just thinking that we hadn't talked for a while. Thought that I should check in, see how my baby brother's doing."

She heard him sigh on the other end of the line. "Really busy, actually. Captain Cullen wants us down on the greens in ten." There was a shuffling sound on Carver's end, like fabric rustling. "So, if there's nothing important…."

Hawke shook her head, though obviously he couldn't see her. "No, yeah, no. It's not important. You should go. I don't want you to get in trouble with your captain."

"I was about to head out."

"Right." Hawke pushed off away from the fridge and took the wine back into her hand. "Well, take care, Carve. I miss you."

"You, too," he said perfunctorily before a soft beep told Hawke that the call had been ended. She nodded once, to herself, and set her phone down on the counter.

She didn't know what she had expected, really. It was boredom more than anything that had prompted her to call her brother and, even if he had wanted to engage in a lengthy conversation, it wasn't as though Hawke had much to say to him, either. There wasn't a great deal of familial connection between the two of them. Carver had not taken particularly well to being raised in the Hawke household with what he had deemed to be "a bunch of delusional psychopaths". As soon as he'd been old enough to leave, he had, and Hawke couldn't really find it in herself to hold that against him. Their father had not always been an easy man to live with.

Hawke sighed roughly, taking a long sip from her glass before moving towards the window that opened out onto the fire escape. It was good view of the city, looking out over the low-income developments that somehow looked like colorful dollhouses from far away. Hawke sat on the rusty grate with her legs dangling out between the bars of the railing. Taking another small drink from her glass, she leaned forward, bracing her forehead against the cool metal bars.

It was little unbelievable, sometimes, that this was her life. As a child, she had always envisioned herself stumbling into a life of greatness. She'd pictured herself as a defense attorney in a tailored pantsuit and four-inch heels, or a researcher curing diseases while wearing a crisp white coat, or a superhero fighting crime in a skin-tight bodysuit. It didn't really matter; she'd had a thousand dreams. But, of all the things she could have done and all the people she could have been, she was only herself. Alone, drinking wine, in an orange shirt with a cartoon rodent on it. It wasn't that she thought she was above it all, exactly; it was only that she'd hoped she was.

Even as she'd grown older and progressively more jaded, Hawke couldn't quite seem to shake the lingering feeling that she had somehow fallen short, stumbling into a life that she wasn't meant for. She kept waiting to feel some sense of belonging, but she couldn't seem to escape the persistent detachment she felt towards her own life, as though it wasn't really hers at all. As if she was floating on the surface of her own existence, neither effecting nor affected by what happened around her. As if, no matter what she did or where she went, she would never really be free of the feeling that she simply wasn't where she was supposed to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A) It occurred to me after I had outlined the plot of this story that its premise bears a striking resemblance to 'Once Upon a Time'. No magic, loss of original identities, all that. Meh. We can't all be original.
> 
> B) Okay, "Gopher-It!" is clearly a rip-off of TaskRabbit. Embrace it. Also, I have no clue what TaskRabbit is.
> 
> C) I do know that there's no way you could ACTUALLY pay rent in a city with Hawke's assumed income. My own rent is so high that I basically had to slit my wrist and sell my soul to Satan to be able to pay it. But Gopher-It! was the closest thing I could think of to the Chanter's Board and the random quests that you get in Act One. And reality be damned! Who knows what rent is like in Kirkwall? There could be incredible rent control, for all we know.


	3. All That Glitters

Charade, as she usually did, announced her return home by throwing the door open with perhaps more force than was necessary. Though she didn't have clear sight of her from the entryway, Charade knew for a certainty that her cousin was home. For one thing, the lights in the kitchen were on. For another thing, Hawke was almost always lounging around the apartment in the evenings. So, without going to the trouble of confirming that Hawke was listening, Charade launched into a loud retelling of her day.

"Oh my god, honey," she shouted, abandoning her shoes and gym bag beside the door, "today has been such a bitch." Slipping off her jacket, she groaned when a cursory examination of the lining turned up glitter. It was like a plague, really; the stuff was everywhere. "First off, some fucker blocked in my car this morning, so I had to take the  _bus_  to work. And I don't know what disorder it is that makes people who take mass transit think that I want them rubbing their dicks on my ass, but that's what it's been all the damn day. Then, some asshole tells me my skirt is a felony waiting to happen." Charade rolled her eyes she spoke, chucking her keys onto the end table that Hawke had purchased for the entry. "Like it's a compliment or something that he can't keep his eyes in his head." Charade shimmied out of her skirt, leaving it in a small puddle on the floor as she made her way into the kitchen, where she saw Hawke crawling in from the fire escape, holding out a bottle of wine in offering. Charade grinned. "Thanks, honey. How is it you always know just what I need?"

"Years of careful observation and diligent note-taking," Hawke shrugged, smiling crookedly and making no comment about the fact that Charade was standing in the kitchen wearing only her underwear and a tank top. "So, since the day's been such a 'bitch', I'm guessing you'll be needing the big glass?" she asked, already retrieving their most ludicrously over-sized wine glass from the cupboard. After one of Charade's particularly difficult days, she and Hawke had discovered that the glass, filled to the brim, could hold an entire bottle of wine. That information had proved useful many times over.

Charade nodded, leaning forward with her elbows propped on the counter and her chin resting on her hands. "I will most definitely be needing the big glass." Hawke placed it, half full, on the counter, before taking a deep sip from her own glass.

For a moment, there was a lull in the conversation as Charade lifted her wine close to her nose, breathing in deeply before she took her first sip, savoring the slight bite of the liquid as she let it linger on her tongue. She swallowed slowly, letting comfortable silence stretch between her and Hawke before she said softly, "Gamlen called me."

Hawke leaned back against the fridge, furrowing her brow thoughtfully as she watched Charade's expression. "Again?"

"Mm hm," said Charade around a mouthful of wine. "He wants to have dinner. Which…." Charade trailed off, shaking her head. "I know it's nice that he's trying, but, God, he's just such a sleaze. You know he came into the club, once?" she said, her lip curling in mild disgust at the memory. "Humiliating for everyone involved, let me tell you. The very pinnacle of all Daddy Issue clichés."

Hawke was never quite sure how to react when Charade talked about Gamlen. On the one hand, Hawke had no particular love for her uncle. On the other hand, there was an awful, self-centered part of Hawke that couldn't help thinking that, if her father were still alive, she would do whatever it took to form a relationship with him. Some days, when Charade complained about how her afternoon with Gamlen had consisted entirely of awkwardly staring at one another, Hawke would think that she'd give anything just to look at her own father again. Of course, she did know what Charade's situation was different and it wasn't fair to be making comparisons, but the thoughts did tend to creep in.

"It might not be too painful," Hawke shrugged, swirling her wine lazily around in her glass. "One dinner, anyway. You could do it here, if you'd rather not go someplace public again. I could even hang around, if you'd like. Be a buffer. Fill all the silences with my awkward, pointless babble. You know how I love to do that."

Charade's face lit with relief. "Would you? That would be amazing. Because, when it's just him and me, it is  _quiet_ , cuz. The last time we did this, there were maybe fifteen words spoken throughout the entirety of the meal, and most of those were to the waitress. It would be such a relief to have someone else there, absorbing some of the awkward."

Hawke huffed out a laugh. "Well, it's my family, too. What kind of cousin would I be if I let you bear the burden of familial awkwardness all on your own?"

Her posture visibly relaxing, a smile lifted the corners of Charade's lips. "That's one weight lifted, then. Though there is still considerable steam that needs to be blown off." As if to punctuate her statement, Charade threw back her head and drained the remainder of her wine before immediately extending the empty glass towards Hawke in a tacit request for a refill.

"I think we kicked that bottle," Hawke said with a smirk. "Want me to open another?"

Charade eyed her glass plaintively for a moment before shaking her head and sighing, "No, I probably shouldn't. I have to go wash the day off myself. Come talk to me while I shower."

A few years ago, Hawke might have found Charade's request strange, but time spent with her cousin had taught Hawke that Charade had a deep aversion to being alone, even for the length of a shower. It was one of the most extreme cases of extroversion that Hawke had ever encountered.

In the bathroom, Hawke turned away while Charade turned on the shower, stripping off the last of her clothes while she waited for the water to run warm. After a moment, the rustle of the shower curtain told Hawke that her cousin had stepped under the stream and out of view. Hawke looked back over her shoulder and, when she was certain that Charade's modesty would go uncompromised, took a seat on top of the lowered lid of the toilet.

"So, what are you doing tonight?" asked Charade, her voice loud and echoing as she spoke above the rush of the shower.

It was, perhaps, Hawke's least favorite question. "I don't know," she answered, casually. "I thought I'd stay in, fill out some more applications. I saw that the coffee place over on Foundry St. was hiring, so I should probably get to that before someone else snatches it up."

There was a silence on the other side of the shower curtain and Hawke could practically envision her cousin's unimpressed expression. "Nope," Charade shouted back decisively. "Too depressing. You are not spending your Friday night in front of a computer screen. That's not what's going to happen."

Hawke scoffed. "It wouldn't be the first time."

"That's  _why_  it's depressing," Charade said, poking her head out from behind the curtain. Her bangs were lank and wet across her forehead and there was mascara running down her cheeks, but somehow neither of those things undercut her reproachful expression. "If this were an isolated incident, I'd let it go. Every now and again, a girl needs to spend a lazy night in. But this is  _not_  an isolated incident." Charade huffed with disapproval and, disappearing back into the shower, continued loudly, "I'd say you're in a rut, but this goes beyond that. This is a trench. It's a deep, icy crevasse that you fell into while drunk mountain climbing and I am the rescue team, armed with casks of brandy to keep you warm."

"That may be a touch hyperbolic," said Hawke, rolling her eyes in spite of the fact that Charade actually wasn't far off base.

"Honesty time: how long has it been since you actually had a night out?" Hawke would have liked to be able to rattle off a date immediately, but, unfortunately, she had to rack her brain for the last time she'd left the apartment with the intention of actually enjoying herself. Charade jumped on the pause, leaning out again to fix Hawke with another stern look. "See? That's what I'm talking about. That's why you're coming out with me tonight."

"Ugh, no," groaned Hawke, her lip curling back with distaste. "That is so much more pathetic than staying in. Tagging along on a pity outing with my  _cousin_?" She shook her head. "No."

"It's not  _pathetic_ ," said Charade with a haughty arch of an eyebrow. "This isn't like taking your cousin to prom. It's not a pity date; I like you and think that you'd have a good time. Drinks, dancing, and spending time with my exceptionally cool and good-looking friends. There's nothing intimidating or scary about that, is there?"

Hawke sighed. There was no good reason not to go out, aside from the obvious fact that she didn't really want to. Of course, she did a lot of things she didn't want to do, so it clearly wasn't much of a deterrent. "Fine, I'll go," said Hawke, defeated.

"So, that's a yes?" Charade grinned so gleefully that Hawke couldn't help but smiling a bit herself. She nodded.

"That's a yes."

"Great!" exclaimed Charade, before dragging her eyes over Hawke in slow appraisal of her appearance. A bit self-consciously, Hawke pulled her knees up to her chest, covering the Gopher-It! logo. Charade seemed to have already arrived at her judgement, however, and was frowning thoughtfully as she looked back up to meet Hawke's eyeline. "We're meeting everyone at this club, so you might want to change into something a little less… you know." She slipped a soapy hand out of the shower and made a vague gesture that seemed to encompass the whole of Hawke's being. "Don't worry too much about what to wear, actually. I have some nice, trampy dresses that will look amazing with your skintone, so no worries there, but you may want to throw on some more makeup while I finish up in here." With a flourish of the shower curtain, Charade vanished from view once more.

Hawke slumped down on the toilet seat dejectedly, feeling increasingly that going out was in no way worth the effort. "Fine," she grumbled, heaving herself up and heading for the door. "I'll make myself presentable."

It had been a while since she had actually had to fix herself up to go out at night. She'd been regular fixture at bars and parties during her years away at university, but it had been some time since those things had lost their appeal. Still, the routine was a familiar one and apparently deeply ingrained in her muscle memory. With skill honed over the course of several hundred hours in front of the mirror, she ran a flat-iron over her hair with painstaking precision. Though it had really only been a few days, she decided that it was probably a good idea to shave her legs as well, which naturally meant that she had to slather herself with copious amounts of lotion afterwards. A fresh coat of antiperspirant and a spritz of perfume also struck her as being prudent.

And, of course, none of that was as time-consuming as the careful application of cosmetics. Some of her skill in that area had atrophied and, though she did generally make it a habit to throw on at least a bit of mascara each morning, it had been ages since she'd had to grapple with ungovernable hellbeast that was liquid eyeliner.

There was a chance that Hawke was a bit heavy-handed with her makeup, but, in the end, when she went to Charade's bedroom, Charade declared joyfully that Hawke looked like the world's classiest porn star on her way to a shoot. It was said in the tone of a compliment, so Hawke took it cheerfully.

"Thank you," she said with a bright grin, closing Charade's door behind her.

Hawke didn't spend time in her cousin's room on a regular basis and, as Charade returned to rummaging through her closet, Hawke's eyes swept disinterestedly over the room. It was, understandably, a bit nicer than Hawke's, with two more windows and a much larger closet. The closet, in spite of its impressive size, was still clearly not up to the task of accommodating the entirety of Charade's expansive wardrobe. She also kept two large, black dressers and a tall armoire which was, at the moment, thrown open with its contents in full view. Charade, who was still in her bathrobe, was clearly not going to select an outfit until she had pawed over every slinky dress in her possession.

"I have the perfect thing for you," announced Charade distractedly, her back to Hawke and her hands quickly shuffling through the clothes in her closet. "It's in here somewhere, I'm sure of it. You like red, don't you? Everyone likes red."

"I like red just fine," Hawke assured her, moving deeper into the room and beginning a closer examination of the various tchotchkes that were placed along the top of Charade's identical dressers. There was, just between a potted cactus and a stack of books about Orlesian colonization, a large fishbowl filled with at least a hundred condoms. "Nice condoms," she observed, biting back a smile.

Charade glanced back over her shoulder and, seeing what Hawke was looking at, laughed airily. "Oh, those. I didn't used to buy in bulk, but I hand those things out like candy. Safe sex is important, right? Can't have my friends riding off into battle without protection." Tightening her robe around herself, Charade turned and, grinning, strode over to Hawke's side. "Speaking of which," she continued, taking the fishbowl and upending it on the dresser, "you are getting some of these." Charade began to shuffle through the foil packets, examining them thoughtfully as she asked, "What's your preference? Ribbed? Glow-in-the-dark? Funny colors?"

"Oh, funny colors, by all means." After a moment's consideration, Hawke added, "Maybe throw in a few of those glow-in-the-dark ones, too."

Charade, gathering together perhaps half a dozen condoms of varying neon hues, threw Hawke a wink as she added a few more packets to their number. "The glow-in-the-dark ones are my favorite," she said with an approving smile. "They're so spooky."

"Yeah," said Hawke, accepting the condoms that Charade heaped into her hands. "I love me a spooky penis."

"Boo!" shouted Charade, lunging forward and then cackling with delight when Hawke let out a cry of surprise, accidently tossing a few packets into the air. "I can't believe you jumped," she laughed, sidling back over to her closet with an air of decided smugness.

Hawke glowered, placing the condoms in neat piles at the end of Charade's bed. "You're not funny, you know."

"Mm, must be a family trait. Now, get over here; I know what I'm putting you in."

It was a dress that could have doubled quite handily as a napkin, should it come to that. It had roughly the same dimensions as a cloth napkin, anyway, though the fabric did appear to have a considerable amount of stretch to it. Hawke wasn't sure that it was an entirely good idea to wear a strapless dress to a nightclub, but, upon hearing this objection, Charade waved her hand dismissively and insisted that it would be fine. The dress, she claimed, was actually much sturdier than it appeared. "And besides," Charade continued, shoving the dress insistently into Hawke's hands, "that white's going to look incredible under the black lights." She grinned. "You're going to glow in the dark."

Ultimately, the dress turned out to be much less ostentatious than the outfit that Charade chose for herself, which was comforting. At least Hawke wouldn't be the only person leaving very little to the imagination.

Once they were both balancing in perilous heels and clinging onto overstuffed clutches, Charade requested a car using an app on her phone that Hawke was too cheap to have even downloaded. Within five minutes, they had slid into the backseat of a sleek, black car and Charade was rattling off an address to their driver.

"So, where exactly are we going?" asked Hawke once the car started off down the street.

"The Hanged Man," Charade said, looking down at the illuminated screen of her phone and hurriedly typing something out. "Everyone's meeting us there." She sent off whatever message she'd been composing and then looked up at Hawke. "While we're there, remind me to introduce you to Varric. He owns the place, manages it, too. Great person to know, if you're interested in networking."

Hawke crossed her legs, smoothing her dress over her thighs so it didn't leave her underwear entirely exposed. "Yeah, maybe," she said, placing her clutch in her lap and fiddling with the clasp. "Who is 'everyone', by the way? I don't want your friends to think that I'm intruding."

Charade had already turned her attention back to her phone, which had vibrated at least three times since Hawke had started talking. "Don't worry about that; it's kind of a mixed group," she said casually. "People from work, people from where I used to work, friends of friends. You'll blend right in."

Hawke nodded, taking a deep breath and staring towards the front of the car, where she could see her reflection in the review mirror. She had definitely been a little liberal with her use of eyeshadow. Licking her fingertip, she dabbed at her eyelids until they looked a bit more subtle.

Charade kept texting busily, occasionally relaying some small piece of information to Hawke, until the driver told them that they'd reached their destination.

"Here we go," said Charade, flashing Hawke a toothy grin before she clamored out of the car. Hawke edged out of her seat with considerably more care, as stepping out onto the curb without allowing everyone a good look up her skirt was a delicate task.

The Hanged Man wasn't really that far away from their apartment. It was a little further south of the overpass than Hawke typically cared to go, but it wasn't yet in the definitively bad part of town. There was something about the building's façade, however, that seemed to suggest that it had been intentionally neglected. Hawke suspected that the simple, industrial appearance of the exterior was supposed to lend the club an air of alluring mystery. As though any number of exciting and erotic things might be happening behind those plain, concrete walls. The only nod to modernity was a bright, steadily glowing sign that sported the name of the club and iconography that reminded Hawke of when her father had tried to spark her interest in the Major Arcana.

The aesthetic seemed to be effective, in any case. A long line of eager people stretched down the sidewalk, kept at bay by a hulking behemoth of a bouncer.

"Maraas!" shouted Charade, catching the bouncer's attention as she bounded towards him. With a twitch of his lips that closely resembled a smile, he allowed Charade to throw herself at the brick wall of his body, twining her arms around him. The bouncer kept one of his thick arms over Charade's shoulder as she stepped away from him, gesturing towards Hawke. "Maraas, this is my gorgeous cousin, Hawke. Cuz, this is Maraas. He's my favorite bouncer."

Hawke raised her hand in a faint impression of a wave. "It's nice to meet you."

Maraas nodded to Hawke in stoic acknowledgement, giving Charade's shoulders a brief squeeze before releasing her. "Cover's twenty each, but it's ten for you two," he said brusquely in a voice that was deep enough to rumble through Hawke's bones.

Hawke fished a bill out of her clutch, only to have Charade bat her away. "I invited you, I'm paying," she insisted, slipping a twenty into Maraas' hand before Hawke could raise any objection.

The interior of the Hanged Man was so garish that it had to be deliberate. There were at least three separate bars on the main floor alone, each apparently made of some sort of frosted Lucite and lit from within by lights that slowly faded from one color to another every few seconds. As if that were insufficient, the decorator had also opted to mount large banks of black lights behind the bars and at odd intervals around the perimeter of the crowded expanse of the dancefloor. The final nail in the coffin of subtlety came in the form of white clouds that regularly billowed out overhead from an industrial-sized smoke machine.

It was the furthest thing in the world from chic and everything in the place fell on the outdated side of trendy. Though Hawke was sure that, six or so months ago, the club's décor and its clientele had been on the cutting edge of fashion, everything now had the slightly seedy quality of a place just past its prime. Even so, elegance was not something that she expected from a nightclub, and, if anything, the trashiness of the place only seemed to contribute favorably to the atmosphere. Even though it was only a little past ten, the club was already filled to bursting, brimming with people who enthusiastically gyrated along with the thudding beat of a song that Hawke had never heard before.

Charade elbowed Hawke in the side, beckoning her to follow towards the spiral staircase that led upwards to a large balcony that overlooked the dancefloor and seemed to serve as something of a longue area. "Come on, they've got a table upstairs," she said, somehow managing to walk on the crosshatched metal that comprised the staircase and balcony without catching her heels.

At the top of the stairs, centered against the rear wall, there was, of course, another bar. On either side, there were configurations of tables and, along the walls, plush booths upholstered in truly tacky blue velvet. To the right, populating a booth that fit neatly against the corner of the wall, a group of women were crowded together, talking animatedly amongst themselves until one of them, spotting Charade, stood and shouted something that was incomprehensible over the din of the music.

"That's Sera," said Charade, leaning in close so that Hawke could hear her over the noise. "She's from Ferelden, too."

In the absence of anything better to say, Hawke simply nodded and muttered, "That's nice," as she followed Charade towards the booth.

There were, at the moment, only three people seated at the booth, but the number of drinks and jackets strewn about the surface of the table seemed to suggest that a great many people had been there mere moments earlier. The trio that remained was indeed, as Charade had described them earlier, exceptionally good-looking.

Sera, the girl who had waved them over, remained standing until they reached the edge of table. When they were close enough for Charade to begin making introductions, Sera dropped back down into her seat, patting the bit of booth beside her as her eyes raked slowly over Hawke. When Sera's eyes finally lifted to meet with her own, Hawke lifted her eyebrows, smirking as she slid into the offered seat.

"So, Sera's a friend of a friend," said Charade as she took a seat beside a striking red-head. "And this is Idunna," she continued, gesturing to the woman beside her. "We used to work together. And that," she added, with a nod towards the only woman she'd yet to introduce, "is Cora. She works with Idunna." Cora, whose striking appearance was in large part due to the pale purple of her hair, lifted her glass in Hawke's general direction before taking a long sip of whatever amber liquid the glass held. "And, everyone, this is my cousin, Hawke. We live together."

While there was a general chorus of greetings around the table, Charade flagged down a server and ordered another round for the table. Hawke, in the interest of getting as drunk as possible as quickly as possible, ordered a double whiskey, which was met with loud approval from Sera.

By the time that their drinks reached them, the worst bits of socializing were already over. Hawke had been asked, by Idunna, what she did for a living, and her answer had been met with the expected series of slow nods and quick changes of the subject. After that, she was asked, by Cora, how long she'd been living in Kirkwall and if she liked it better than Ferelden. Hawke had grinned broadly, lied through her teeth, and redirected the question to Sera, who had laughed loudly, blown a raspberry on the heel of her hand, and declared that surely there must be more interesting things to talk about than Ferelden. And that had been the end of it. No one had asked why she'd moved away, no one had asked about her family, and no one asked what she had planned for the future. It was over. Hawke exhaled, relaxing back into the booth as the conversation flowed on to safer topics.

For the most part, Hawke had no idea what anyone was talking about. As was so often the case among friends, the conversation generally seemed to revolve around commenting on the lives and behaviors of mutual acquaintances. But, by the time that the first round of drinks turned into tequila shots for the table, Hawke had picked up on enough of the essentials to be able to comfortably insert herself into the conversation. It was easy, really, and, in a strange way, familiar. The subjects up for discussion—sex, dating, the general assholery of employers—were universal enough that Hawke felt as though she were falling into a discussion that she'd had a hundred times over. She remembered how simple it could be, just to laugh, and to drink, and to open herself to the possibility that the night might be something other than terrible.

She was in the process of sucking a lime wedge out from between Sera's teeth when there was a sudden chorus of welcoming cries from around the table. Hawke pulled back, the green rind of the lime bright across her smile as she glanced over her shoulder towards the newcomer.

The woman, who was currently wrapped in an embrace from Charade, was dressed similarly to Hawke, though the white of her dress was somewhat less pristine. Her dress, and indeed her entire body, were flecked with an array of glowing spots and speckles, as if someone had broken several glow sticks and showered her with their contents. When she pulled away from Charade, Hawke noticed the woman's chest was heaving with heavy breaths, as though her exertions on the dancefloor had been extremely strenuous. She snatched a half-empty bottle of beer off the table and then, glancing towards Hawke, grinned broadly.

"Shove over, sweet thing," she said in a pleasantly lilting voice. Before Hawke had a chance to do so, the newcomer was already squeezing down beside her. Once she was at least half sitting in the booth, the woman tilted her beer bottle in a quick gesture towards Hawke and asked, "I know you from somewhere, don't I?"

Hawke edged deeper into the corner of the booth, creating more space beside her. "It's possible, but I feel fairly certain that I would remember you," she said, smiling slowly.

The woman smirked, filling the space that Hawke had vacated and pressing up close to her side. "People tend to, yes." She seemed to hesitate, her bright, honey-colored eyes flickering curiously over Hawke's face, before, with a triumphant smile, she was able to place her. "You're Charade's cousin, aren't you? She said you'd be coming tonight. Though, that won't be until a bit later, I'd expect."

Hawke, who had taken an ill-timed sip of whiskey, nearly snorted some of it out through her nose as she held back a laugh. "Shouldn't you at least tell me your name before starting in on the heavy innuendo?"

"Isabela," she answered, flashing white teeth as her smile widened. "Captain Isabela, during the summer months." Isabela tapped two of her fingers against her forehead in a lazy salute before taking a deep swill of her drink.

" _Captain_? Is that really a seasonal title?"

"It is when you offer romantic, glass-bottom cruises around the harbor." Isabela trailed her fingertip in slow circles around the opening of her beer bottle as she added contemplatively, "There's something about the ball-shriveling temperatures of a Kirkwall winter that makes business shrink up like a turtle back into its shell."

Hawke huffed out a little sigh, shaking her head in commiseration. "And here I was, thinking that the cold weather would just give people the chance to cuddle close with their hands hidden beneath a blanket."

Isabela chuckled warmly, clinking the neck of her beer against the rim of Hawke's glass. "My thinking exactly, sweetness, but, apparently my customers don't have the same ingenuity as you or I."

It would have been impossible to miss the flirtatious note in Isabela's tone, or the way her bare thigh slid slowly against Hawke's own. "Pity, that," said Hawke breezily, before adding, to preempt any misunderstanding, "Though, to be honest, it's been a while since I've had any interest in putting my ingenuity into practice. I'm not exactly in the market for anyone, at the moment."

Isabela's smirked, her lips twisting sideways, as she caught Hawke's meaning. "Oh, come now," she drawled, her fingertips dancing lightly down the curvature of her empty beer bottle. "Just because you're not in the market doesn't mean that you can't peruse the goods. Fondle the wares. Root through the storage barrels."

"The storage barrels?" echoed Hawke, arching her eyebrows skeptically at Isabela while she fought back a grin.

"Imagery," said Isabela with a lofty wave of her hand. "But, if you're going to insist on being entirely dull, then the least you can do is keep me company while I keep an eye out for something a little more… thrilling." She inclined her head in a quick nod towards the lower level.

"Well, if it's the least I can do," sighed Hawke, making an unconvincing show of being put upon.

"It is," Isabela said merrily, grasping Hawke's around the wrist and dragging her off towards the staircase while Hawke threw a hurried wave back in the general direction of her cousin.

Isabela cut through the crowd, situating them just below the platform where the DJ played. The song that was thudding out over the floor was slower than the one that had been playing when Hawke had entered the Hanged Man and, across the crowd, bodies undulated to the steady beat of the bass, legs slotted together and hands sweeping searchingly over whatever warm flesh was within reach. Hawke smiled as Isabela pulled her close, wrapping her arms around the small of Hawke's back as they began to move in time with one another.

Isabela danced with her entire body, each movement flowing from the ample curve of her hips, along the indentation of her waist, and finally over the swell of her breasts, which she pressed slightly into Hawke as she arched forward just before swaying back. Hawke chased Isabela's movements, shifting malleably and rolling her hips along in dizzy circles under the guidance of Isabela's hands.

"They've got their eyes all over us," Isabela breathed, her lips brushing against the shell of Hawke's ear. "Funny, isn't it? Men: it's like they lose sense altogether when there's even a whisper of tension between two women. Though, who can really blame them?" she continued silkily. "Two sets of breasts, two pairs of full, pouting lips. All that smooth, promising skin."

"You're still flirting with me, aren't you?" laughed Hawke, leaning back just enough to meet Isabela's gaze.

"Can't blame a girl for trying," owned Isabela, abandoning the low, seductive murmur that her voice had taken on.

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it. How could anyone be expected to withstand my considerable charms?"

"Brat," Isabela smirked, increasing the distance between them as the song changed to one with a faster tempo. "Well, no harm done, sweet thing," she said, already glancing off over Hawke's shoulder as she bounced along energetically to the new beat. "I've got my eye on something tall, dark, and hung like a horse." Isabela's eyes flicked up and down as they thoroughly surveyed her new prospect. "Mm," she moaned appreciatively, "Now, that's a face you could ride for  _hours_."

Hawke grinned, looking back over her shoulder in an attempt to catch sight of whoever it was that Isabela had attracted Isabela's attentions. "Well, if you're trying to make me jealous," she said, shouting over the music as she scanned the crowd, "then you're certainly suc..ced…ing." The final word left Hawke's mouth in disjointed fragments that were barely associated with one another. The only reason that she'd managed to get the word out at all was that some part of her subconscious had presumably seized control of her verbal faculties while every other higher function of her brain was diverted elsewhere.

He was leaning back against the bar, nursing a beer as his eyes swept impassively over the crowd. Hawke froze in place, immobilized as she watched the way the black lights caught against his white hair and the swirling lines of tattoos that twisted like vines around his forearms. Head cocking to the side, Hawke let out an uninflected exhalation. "Huh."

Suddenly, she became aware of the fact that Isabela was close beside her, trying to follow her eyeline. "What is it?"

Hawke shook her head, tearing her eyes away from the bar. "I think I know that guy," she said dazedly. "By the bar, with the white hair."

Isabela looked where Hawke had directed her and, immediately, grinned with delight. " _Fenris_?" she said, laughing almost incredulously.

"Fenris," Hawke repeated, looking back towards where he stood. Even from a distance, in fairly low light, he looked bored and vaguely irritated.

"How do you know him?" shouted Isabela, looking away from the bar and going back to making eye contact with whatever man she'd chosen for the night. "You've never worked for Varric."

"I don't know," Hawke shouted back, shaking her head again. "I just thought I'd seen him somewhere before."

"So, say hello," Isabella suggested, shimmying slightly as she began to move incrementally closer to where her potential partner was dancing.

"You don't mind?" asked Hawke hesitantly, still feeling as though she hadn't quite gotten her head back in order. "I  _did_  say I'd dance with you."

"Oh, don't worry about me, sweet thing. I'm sure I'll entertain myself somehow." Pointedly, Isabela pursed her lips into a kiss and winked at the person over Hawke's shoulder.

"I don't doubt it," laughed Hawke. "Thanks for letting me have the first dance, anyway."

"Anytime, sweetness," said Isabela, pressing a swift kiss to Hawke's cheek before disappearing off into the throng of sweating bodies.

Of course, the moment Hawke was alone, faced with the prospect of approaching a man whom she may or may not know, it suddenly seemed like much more daunting a prospect than it had when Isabela suggested it. For one thing, it now struck Hawke as being incredibly unlikely that she had ever met this person before. Except for, perhaps, one or two extremely elderly individuals, she had no recollection of ever having met anyone with white hair. That, taken in combination with the white tattoos, gave this Fenris person a highly distinctive appearance. Really, she couldn't imagine what she had been thinking. Of course she didn't know him. She would have remembered him, if she had.

But, she didn't see why that should stop her from meeting him now.

Steeling herself with a deep breath, and relying on the confidence given by two double-whiskeys and at least that many shots of tequila, Hawke meandered through the crowd, fighting her way to the bar.

He didn't look in her direction as she approached, instead blankly staring into the middle distance while absently bobbing his head along with the thump of the bassline. The bartender, however, noticed Hawke's arrival and lifted his finger to signal that he'd be with her once he was finished at the till. Hawke nodded shakily, leaning her forearms forward on the bar and thinking that she really could use another drink at the moment. She couldn't remember the last time that she'd actually hit on someone.

Exhaling roughly, she glanced sideways in a way that she hoped seemed casual, and shouted boldly, "I love this song."

He didn't look at her or give any other sign that he was aware of her existence. Hawke slumped forward, biting the inside of her cheek, as she glowered down at the sticky surface of the bar. Well, that was it, then. That was her best material and it was terrible.

"I'm sorry, were you addressing me?"

Hawke looked up, her breath catching in her throat when she saw that Fenris was looking back at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A) Okay, exposition over.  
> B) Chekhov's condoms.


	4. Where There's Smoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: Flippant mention of suicide. Smoking (cigarettes), alcohol consumption. Allusion to canon character death/mutilation.

Up-close, he was devastating.

The white hair, a bit overgrown and carelessly brushed away from his forehead, was just the beginning. Hawke had been prepared for that much. She'd mentally readied herself for the tattoos that ran up over his neck, making her want to trace their lines with her tongue until it left him quivering. She'd seen the two twin lines beneath his mouth, and had known that they'd make her want to cover that mouth with her own, dragging her teeth over his lower lip. What she hadn't been quite prepared for were the details of his face. She hadn't known just how full those soft-looking lips would be, or that they'd quirk upwards slightly at the corners while his eyes swept over her face. And those eyes. She had been in no way ready for those. Whether they were hazel or green, she couldn't tell beneath the black lights, but she could see that they were large and bright and fringed with the sort of beautiful, thick lashes that were entirely unfair.

And he was looking at her with those unfair eyes as though he expected her to say something, but, for the life of her, she couldn't remember what he'd said. "Huh?" she said, hoping that he'd attribute her confusion to the volume of the music.

He oriented his body so that he was facing towards her, leaning on the bar with one elbow instead of two as he said, raising the volume of his voice so that she would be sure to hear him, "I asked if you were speaking to me." God, that voice. She hadn't been prepared for that either. They should make him wear a sign around his neck, something to warn people.

"Oh, yeah! I was," she said, attempting to sound casual as she turned sideways to mirror his stance. Unfortunately, as she propped herself up, her elbow slid out from under her, colliding with a cup filled with small, paper umbrellas. Fenris' hand shot out, catching the cup before it fell. The intervention had drawn him closer, placing him almost entirely in Hawke's space. She cleared her throat, laughing a little breathlessly as he took a minute step backwards, removing him from her personal bubble but still leaving him much closer to her than he had been a moment earlier. "Thanks for that," she said, rubbing her hand over the back of her neck as she felt her ears burn with embarrassment. "Good reflexes."

Fenris nodded once, his lips twitching almost imperceptibly as he gallantly kept himself from laughing at her. "It's a talent," he said, letting himself smile just before he took a slow drink of his beer. Hawke took the moment to steady herself, taking a few deep breaths so that, by the time he'd set his bottle down on the bar, she felt that she could speak with moderate composure.

"I'm Hawke," she said, holding out her hand for him to shake. It was only when he looked down, somewhat amused, at her extended hand, that she realized that, perhaps, the gesture would better befit another setting. Not many people went around nightclubs politely shaking hands. Nevertheless, he reached out to her, shaking her hand once before releasing it. There wasn't much time to notice anything about his touch other than that his palm was cold from his drink and his fingers were long and perhaps a bit perfect.

"Pleasure," he said, the corner of his lips lifting as lowered his hand back to his beer. "My name is Fenris."

"Yeah, I know," said Hawke offhandedly, just before clamping her teeth down on the inside of her cheek. It was, perhaps, the creepiest thing she could have said to someone she'd only just met, and, clearly, that didn't slip past Fenris' notice. His entire body stiffened instantaneously, his brow furrowing.

"You know?" His voice was rough, his words slow and careful. Hawke wished that it were physically possible to shove her foot in her mouth.

"Well, what happened was," she began in a rush, trying to pave over the damage as quickly as possible, "I was dancing with my friend, and I guess she knows you, and she noticed that I was watching you—"

"Watching me," he said, staring at her with a flat, unreadable expression.

Hawke deflated, her shoulders slumping forward as she exhaled helplessly. "Well, yeah," she sighed, surrendering to the utter hopelessness of the situation. "Because you're, you know, a very handsome young man." Every word was horrifying. She had somehow managed to make herself sound like an old woman who wanted to pinch his cheeks and feed him hard candies. "And, I'm realizing now that you've got, like, ten years on me, so it's probably weird that I called you 'young man', just now," she added, quickly losing sight of why she'd thought that any of that would be an improvement on what she'd said before. "Oh my god," Hawke groaned, pinching her eyes closed. "I'm going to go… find my friend. Or kill myself. One of those."

She was already backing away when she felt his hand gently close around her wrist. Fenris broke the contact in the exact instant that Hawke looked back to him. Much to her relief, she saw that he was relaxed once more, his shoulders shaking with poorly suppressed laughter as he bowed his head forward in an attempt to conceal his smile. Hawke let out a short, indignant sound for the sake of appearances, but the sudden absence of tension left her grinning.

"Stay," Fenris said, raising his gaze to meet hers. "Let me buy you a drink. Clearly, you need one." He smiled as if he were ashamed to be caught doing so, and Hawke couldn't help but thinking that, if he looked at her like that, there was nothing in the world that she would be able to refuse him.

"I really do, yeah," she agreed, leaning back against the bar again, taking special care not to knock anything over this time.

She couldn't help but feel a thrill of triumph when Fenris, flagging over the bartender, asked what she wanted. Never in her life had she so thoroughly botched an attempt at flirtation, but he still wanted to talk to her, at least for the length of one drink. Of course, there was still the very real possibility that he was only buying her a drink out of pity. It seemed unlikely that he'd been charmed by her stupidity.

"So, Hawke," said Fenris, as he handed over the cash for her gin and tonic. "An unusual name."

Hawke nodded, plucking the lime garnish off the rim of her glass and squeezing it into her drink before she took a sip. "It's my last name, actually," she told him, shrugging. "Prep school habit. They had this theory that calling us by our surnames would foster, like, an environment of greater professionalism and learning in the classroom." She waved her hand airily, breezing past the theory, and added, "Anyway, my name's Adriana."

"Hadriana?"

"Adriana," she repeated, speaking more clearly. "A as in Alpha, not H as in Hotel."

"Oh," he said, shaking his head and staring down at his drink as he began to restlessly tip the bottle from side to side. "I misheard you." Sneering downwards, Fenris forced out a short laugh that sounded awkward even according to Hawke's somewhat generous standards.

"It's alright," said Hawke slowly, her brow knitting together. "I prefer Hawke, anyway."

Fenris didn't seem to have quite heard her, but he nodded in acknowledgment, his gaze still downcast. Again, Hawke was struck by the desire to salvage the conversation, though she knew that she couldn't have done anything wrong this time. She hadn't actually made some blundering slip of the tongue; he'd reacted to something he'd imagined. Which was alright, really. She did the same thing all the time, hearing familiar names or seeing faces that brought back things that she had never wanted to remember. The trick was to not get sucked into the memory, to distract yourself before it dragged you under. Lightly, she placed her hand on top of Fenris'. He jolted, surprised, but when he looked up at her, his expression was open.

"I like your tattoos," she said, as softly as the music would allow. "When did you get them?"

When he blinked, it took a fraction of a second longer than it might have ordinarily, as if he were trying to clear his head. Hawke ran her index finger slowly down one of the markings on the back of his hand before ending the contact altogether. He watched her, his eyes flickering once or twice from her hand to her eyes before settling on the latter.

"I got them in a fit of post-adolescent rebellion," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards once more. "It's been a while."

"They're beautiful," she said, actually managing to sound casual as she broke eye-contact and returned to her drink. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Fenris bow his head. She was beginning to notice a pattern—a hint of embarrassment whenever he received a compliment. Hawke smirked behind her glass. That was something she was going to have to explore more thoroughly in the future.

"I'm not overly fond of them, myself," said Fenris, clearing his throat. "I got them to prove … well, it hardly matters." He followed her lead, taking a long drink before adding, somewhat hastily, "Suffice it to say, they've outworn their welcome, and yet, there's little to be done about them, now."

Hawke nodded. "Well, I suppose tattoos do have a certain… permanence to them."

Fenris' shoulders shook once, and she watched his lips turning in a smile around the mouth of his bottle before he lowered it. "An obvious flaw that I foolishly overlooked in my youth," he sighed remorsefully, his eyes flicking towards her and looking, to her delight, as though he didn't find what he saw wholly objectionable. Much to the contrary, in fact. Hawke dragged her teeth over her lower lip, trying not to grin too broadly.

"At least yours are unique," she said, lifting her shoulders in a slight shrug. "Not, like, a pink-and-aqua dolphin on the outside of your ankle. For instance."

Fenris arched one of his expressive eyebrows at her. "Oddly specific," he drawled, leaning almost imperceptibly closer to her. "Could it be that you have some tattoos of your own?"

Hawke had never been more disappointed in herself for not getting some small, enticing tattoo on some private, provocative part of her body. "No, not actually, no," she admitted with a sigh. She  _had_ thought about it, years ago. She'd wanted to get her father's name and the date of his death on the inside of her wrist, but Carver, who'd been getting his own tattoo at the time, had objected on the grounds that it would be extremely morbid. And, in the end, it would have been unnecessary. It's not as though she was in danger of forgetting that her family was dead. "My brother has one, though," she said abruptly, diverting her thoughts. "Of our dog, Hannibal. He says he can make it bark, but no one ever wants to see him do it."

"Hm. With good reason." Fenris reached out for his beer and, finding it empty, turned to her and said, "I'm going out for a smoke."

Hawke felt a wave of dull, unsurprised disappointment. That was it, then. This was as far as she could get on the currency of the pity Fenris had felt for her after their abysmal introduction. She nodded, noting that her glass was also empty and she could, quite easily, make her way back to Charade and the others. Maybe, if she looked dejected enough, her cousin would let her go home early without commenting upon it.

"Care to join me?"

"Oh! Yeah!" she exclaimed with more enthusiasm than any human being should ever display outside of an amusement park environment.

But, he looked relieved, as if he'd actually believed there was a chance in hell that she would say "no".

"Shall we?" he said, gesturing fluidly towards the back exit. Hawke nodded, following the motion of his hands. Those were nice hands. Hands that made her want to ask if he'd ever taken piano lessons as a child. Those fingers would be amazing on a piano. They'd be amazing on a lot of things.

While they were meandering across the dancefloor, moving towards the exit, he reached back to her, grabbing hold of her hand to make sure that they didn't get separated. And, yes, those fingers were incredible when they were wrapped gently around her own. Hawke looked down, admiring the way his tattoos traced over the bones of his metacarpals, shifting when his fingers flexed around her hand. She fought the urge to twine their fingers together, feeling that it might be a bit presumptuous to transform his guiding touch into an opportunity to hold hands.

When Fenris pushed through the rear exit, walking past a bouncer with a nod of familiarity, he let Hawke's hand slip free of his. Hawke was a little ashamed of herself for feeling crestfallen at the loss.

Outside, the line of people waiting for admission to the club seemed only to have lengthened. Granted, the energy of the line had shifted considerably. It was clear from the general rowdiness and raucous bursts of laughter that, for many of these people, the Hanged Man would not be their first stop of the night.

Fenris led Hawke a short ways away from the crowd, towards a well-lighted street corner where a busy vendor was selling hotdogs to desperately hungry drunks. Hawke could have done without the heavy scent of cooking meat, but she was grateful for the golden glow of the streetlamp. Under the neutral lighting, she could see Fenris more clearly than she'd been able to inside of the club. She could see now that his eyes were definitely green and, if she wasn't mistaken, there was something about the lines of his nose that suggested he had a least a little Arlathan blood in him. It was a nice nose and, for some reason, it made her want to see if she could roll a coin from his forehead to his chin without breaking contact. It was an odd impulse, but it filled her with the sudden, deep longing to see if he would let her try. She wondered if he would laugh at her attempts, if she would be allowed to kiss him afterwards.

Hawke's train of thought was interrupted when Fenris began to fish for something in his back pocket. The fit of Fenris' pants was already somewhat distracting, and that was without any additional tightening of the fabric. Hawke looked off towards the hotdog vendor, willing herself not to stare at parts of him that she really shouldn't even be looking at without first getting permission.

"Hawke?"

She glanced back at Fenris to see him holding out a crumbled box of cigarettes in offering. "No thanks, I don't smoke," she said, refusing out of habit before remembering that she had followed Fenris outside for the express purpose of smoking.

Fenris smiled crookedly, clearly noticing the exposure of her pretense, but it didn't seem to bother him. He nodded once, slipping the box back into his pocket without any further fuss. "Do you mind if I do?" he asked, gesturing with the cigarette that dangled lazily from between his index and middle fingers.

Hawke waved her hand carelessly, inviting him to proceed. "No, not at all."

Fenris signified his gratitude with a quick dip of his head before cupping one hand around his lighter, shielding it from the wind. Hawke watched the way the orange light of the flame shone through the very tips of his fingers, making them glow faintly red. When he leaned forward, cigarette hanging limply from his lips, the light played across the planes of his face, accentuating the hollowing of his cheeks as he sucked in a long breath of air. The flame clicked out as Fenris stood upright, exhaling smoke, and lifted his gaze to meet Hawke's. She smiled, folding her arms over her chest as she felt a chill pass over her.

He tilted his head slightly to the side. "You're not cold, are you?"

It was a reasonable question, since the temperature had been gradually decreasing since sunset and she was outside, dressed in what amounted to a handkerchief. "No, not really," she said, lifting one shoulder in a close approximation of a shrug.

He took a slow drag, his eyes wandering as he surveyed her considerable expanses of bared skin. His initial concern seemed to have transformed into something else altogether by the time he was done looking her over and, clearing his throat, Fenris said roughly, "I'm wearing a shirt under this one, if you're interested."

"Won't  _you_  be cold?"

"No more so than you are." His cigarette bobbed between his lips as he spoke, his hands already swiftly moving over the buttons of his gray over-shirt. Hawke gaped, wide-eyed, at what was, in essence, an incredibly innocent strip show. As soon as she gained control of herself, however, she looked down at her shoes. Fenris didn't even seem aware of any potentially lewd interpretation of what he was doing, and it somehow seemed wrong to exploit the situation. She wasn't sure what it was about him exactly that always had her looking away just when she most wanted to stare.

"There you are," said Fenris, drawing close as he draped his shirt over her shoulders. "Apologies for not having anything more substantial to offer."

His face was so near to her own and, though she saw him through a haze of smoke, Hawke was struck once more by the undeniable sensation that she had seen him before. There was something so familiar about the hesitation in his voice, and in the almost shy smile that played along the curve of his lips. And those eyes, which looked at her through lowered lashes as he inclined his head forward, chin near his chest. "Can I ask you something?" Hawke said, her voice near a whisper. Fenris didn't nod, but he tilted his head to the side, looking at her curiously as though he were inviting her to continue. "Have we met before?"

Fenris laughed, gusts of smoke rolling past his lips as he pulled away from her, taking a step back as he shook his head. "It seems unlikely."

Hawke huffed out a sigh of frustration. "See, that's what I thought! I would  _remember_  you." She shook her head, worrying her teeth over her lower lip as she looked at him thoughtfully. "But, I could swear that I've seen you somewhere before."

Fenris hummed musingly, flicking accumulated ash off his cigarette as he stared at some point just over the top of her head. After a moment, and looking as though it cost him a good deal of effort, he said slowly, "Do you read terrible magazines, by any chance?"

Hawke snorted. "I don't make a habit of it, no."

Fenris shook his head, ashing his cigarette again in spite of the fact it was clearly unnecessary. "It's not that, then. There was a chance that you'd seen the photo next to my byline."

It was a distracting enough revelation that Hawke was momentarily diverted from what they'd been talking about. "You're a writer?"

Fenris shrugged and said, somewhat flatly, "For a terrible magazine, yes."

"Which one?" asked Hawke, curious in spite of Fenris' utter lack of enthusiasm.

He cleared his throat again, very loudly this time, and, speaking in a rush as though he thought that that might keep her from hearing him, said, "Hot Ice." Hawke didn't laugh, but she came close, earning an exasperated sigh from Fenris. Rolling his eyes, he charged onwards, adding, "It's a trend magazine, meaning that the content is largely dictated by advertisers. What I do is less  _writing_  and more… composing exceptionally long captions to run alongside well-lit photographs of craft microbrews."

Hawke exhaled with amusement, pulling Fenris' shirt more securely around herself. "I'm sure it's not that bad."

"It's not," admitted Fenris. As though he were concerned that he might have come off as overly self-effacing, he continued earnestly, "I don't mean to sound ungrateful. I was fortunate to find any form of employment, particularly in this city."

Hawke could not have agreed more ardently with that last statement, and let out a short sound that suggested as much. What followed, expectedly, was the question she always dreaded. Fenris gestured towards her easily, and asked, "So, what is it that you do?"

She always wanted to lie in response to that question, but the urge was particularly strong at that moment. Sometimes, on the bus or in the line at the supermarket, she would tell strangers that she was a nurse or a crime scene investigator or something else that was suitably vague and didn't require much elaboration. It was harmless, when she was unlikely to see the person again. But, that strategy wouldn't do her any good with Fenris. She wanted to see him again. She wanted to see a lot of him, all of him. For the time being, anyway. She didn't want to get too far ahead of herself. Still, the situation demanded an honest answer, no matter how ashamed she was to give it.

"I've always done odd jobs" she said, "but, most of the work I do now is through Gopher-It!." Shrugging, she added casually, "It's an app that connects people with something that needs to be done with someone who's willing to do it." She shook her head, smiling in a way that she hoped conveyed that she was, in fact, aware of how pathetic she sounded. "It's only temporary, while I'm looking for something better."

Fenris nodded. "Do you enjoy it?" he asked nonchalantly, as if she hadn't just described a job that consisted of performing menial tasks.

Hawke laughed. She had actually never been asked that question before and had never considered the answer. "Maybe," she said, the uncertainty of her reply coming through in the rising inflection. "I think I like that it's unpredictable. And the flexibility. There are worse ways to make money, I suppose. Ultimately, I just never wanted to end up doing something because of inertia. You know, start off doing something that's supposed to be temporary, and then find myself still doing the same thing twenty years later because I let myself get carried along by momentum." Fenris watched her as she spoke, his eyes following the movements of her hands as though they were fascinating. It was the weight of his gaze that made Hawke laugh again, somewhat intimidated by having his focused attention. "So, enough of my drunken ramblings. What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Do you like what you do?"

"Oh," he said, looking down at the orange tip of his cigarette and chewing his lip thoughtfully. "I like quiet," he said, after a moment's reflection. "If I were to do something I truly enjoyed, I expect I'd be far from the city, shut away in some isolated estate, probably drinking heavily in a darkened room." Fenris shrugged, looking back at her with that crooked smile that was quickly becoming her favorite of all his expressions. "Of course, it's a challenge to find someone willing to pay for that sort of thing. And property taxes do tend to make your larger, more isolated estates somewhat impractical."

Hawke shifted her weight from one foot to the other, pulling the hem of her dress down slightly, as she watched the stub of Fenris' cigarette burning down. "So, why did you come out tonight, would-be recluse that you are?" she asked, wondering what the chances were that she'd be able to convince him to dance with her once his cigarette had burnt out entirely.

"The owner owes me money," Fenris replied simply. "I came to call in the debt."

"And that's… Varric, right?" Hawke asked, remembering Isabela's implication that Fenris worked for Varric, or, at least, had been associated with him at some point.

"You're acquainted?" Fenris asked, arching one of his eyebrows at her as he blew a thin trail of smoke from the corner of his mouth.

"Not personally, no," she confessed, "but I've heard the name. My cousin might have worked for him at some point… I think."

"That's very possible," he acknowledged. "He's a connected man. Many people work for him, in varying capacities."

"Is that why he owes you money?" Hawke asked unthinkingly. When she heard the words leave her mouth, she immediately backtracked, adding, "Which I'm now realizing is too personal a question." Hawke shook her head, looking down at the sidewalk. "Forget it."

"It's not," Fenris assured her, waving her concerns aside. "I won a bit of money off him last week, and, with rent due at the start of next month, I thought it might be time to collect."

"Ah, rent," she said with a commiserating sigh. "Makes squatting under a bridge seem like an increasingly appealing option."

Fenris let out a laugh, or made a sound that very closely resembled one, and nodded. "And one which I've considered myself, from time to time." He flicked his cigarette down to the ground, crushing out any lingering spark beneath the tip of his shoe.

Hawke exhaled. There were only a limited number of options before her now. She could follow Fenris back into the club, tagging along beside him until he found Varric, at which point she would probably feel so uncomfortable that she would have no choice but to excuse herself. There was the small chance that, once they were back inside, Fenris would want to dance with her, maybe share another drink, but that struck her as being unlikely. He hadn't come to the Hanged Man for a night out, he'd come to collect a debt. In all probability, their interaction had simply come to its natural end. Any desperate attempts on her part to prolong it would probably tarnish the entire exchange by giving it an awkward end. Better to excuse herself now, while he still had a favorable impression of her.

"It's getting kind of late," she said, slipping off his shirt and holding it out to him. "I should probably call it a night."

Fenris lifted his eyebrows in surprise, taking the shirt back from her. "Oh. Right," he said, glancing briefly towards the Hanged Man before turning back to Hawke. "Shall I… hail you a cab?"

He gestured in the direction of a group of girls who were laughing merrily while piling into the back of one of the many checkered taxis that lined the block. Hawke hesitated, not quite sure how to proceed. The streets were congested at this hour, filled with people frantically searching for someplace more exciting than wherever they'd just been. With traffic, the ride home would likely cost Hawke far more than she was willing to spend to travel less than a mile.

"I'll walk," she said, shaking her head. "I'm not far from here."

Fenris nodded, absently twisting his over-shirt in his hands rather than putting it back on. "If you'd rather, I could walk with you," he suggested in a low, hurried murmur. "It's a bit late."

Hawke couldn't tell whether the offer came out of chivalry, or out of a genuine desire to share her company. "You don't  _have_  to," she said slowly, in spite of the fact that the very idea that he might want to come home with her made her heart hammer in her chest. "It really isn't far. You can go back in, if you want to."

A trace of something very like hopefulness entered Fenris' eyes when his offer wasn't met with outright rejection. "It's no bother," he insisted. "I can just as easily speak with Varric in the morning. I am very much at your disposal." As if he were taken aback by his own boldness, Fenris began to blush faintly as he added, more tentatively, "If you want for company, that is."

Hawke grinned, already nodding her enthusiastic assent before she had actually given his proposal proper consideration. It then occurred to her that her mother would have given her a thorough scolding for even thinking of wandering away from a nightclub with a heavily tattooed man whom she'd only just met. Granted, Fenris didn't exactly seem like the sort of person who'd chop her body up and leave her mutilated, defiled corpse to rot in a warehouse, but it was better safe than murdered. Hawke hesitated, drawing in a breath to speak, but only letting out a rough exhalation when words failed her.

"Oh!" she exclaimed as an idea struck her. Keeping her clutch turned away from Fenris, and its contents carefully hidden, Hawke fished out her phone and held it up, smiling triumphantly. "Can I take your picture?" Fenris arched an eyebrow at her skeptically, so she elaborated, "In case I turn up dead. I'm sending your photo to my cousin."

Fenris stared at her flatly and, for a moment, she thought he might actually refuse, but then he shrugged, casually saying, "Fair enough," as he looked into the camera.

"Aw, that's a cute one," cooed Hawke, smirking as she turned the screen towards Fenris for his approval.

"Adorable," he said, rolling his eyes as she sent the photo off to Charade. "Which way are you?"

"Left," she told him, inclining her head in the general direction of her apartment as she slipped her phone back into her clutch. "I'm near the corner of 16th and Main."

Fenris nodded, setting off in the direction she'd indicated.

Initially, he walked at a brisk pace that Hawke, in four-inch heels, couldn't possibly be expected to match. If she had to venture a guess, she'd say that Fenris probably didn't spend much time in the company of women who wore heels, because it certainly seemed to take him a while to figure out that her movements were somewhat impaired. Once he noticed that she was struggling, however, he slowed to an amble, making a concerted effort to match his strides to hers.

It was actually a lovely night for a stroll. Kirkwall's light pollution hid almost every star from sight, but the sky was clear and Hawke could make out the flash of airplanes as they flew overhead. It was almost romantic, walking beneath a dusky blue sky with the crescent of a waning moon bleeding white into the darkness. It wasn't even especially cold out, though Fenris did return his shirt to Hawke after they'd been walking for perhaps two or three blocks.

There were people everywhere, still milling through the streets and enjoying the first night of their weekend. Even if Hawke had been alone, she would have been in very little danger, and, as it was, any risk was negligible. Still, Hawke felt compelled to offer some apology for leading Fenris into her neighborhood which was, even at the best of times, somewhat dodgy.

"It's really not as bad as it looks," she explained, sidestepping a teenager who was sitting on the curb and smoking something that definitely smelled illegal. "It's safe, I mean. It mostly just looks sketchy, what with all the tattoo parlors and the fact that there's only the one coffeehouse, which isn't even franchised."

"Have you lived here since leaving Ferelden, or is it a more recent development?" Fenris asked, pausing to look through a thrift shop window at a display featuring a mannequin dressed up in someone's used bondage gear.

"Did I tell you I was from Ferelden?" Hawke asked, walking backwards as she drifted along ahead of him.

Fenris shook his head, looking away from the window and following on after her. "No. You have an accent."

"Oh. Most people don't catch that," she said, turning forward as Fenris caught up to her. "Yeah, I moved away three or so years ago. What about you? You're not from the Free Marches, either, are you?"

"Tevinter," said Fenris, shoving his hands down into his pockets. "The Northern Cape, about forty-five minutes outside of Minrathous."

Hawke made a soft, thoughtful noise as she nodded.

It was a somewhat unusual expatriation, as Tevinter and the Free Marches, historically, had a tense political relationship. Tevinter's occupation of Kirkwall had ended over a century earlier, but, even as that tension abated, the fact still remained that there were a number of popular political parties in Tevinter that supported policies that verged on repellent. They had only just recently disbanded their Senate, which had been globally reviled for its widespread corruption and institutionalized racism.

"I don't know much about Tevinter," she said, dropping her gaze and feeling incredibly grateful that she hadn't mentioned anything earlier about Fenris' possible Arlathan ancestry. Being from Tevinter, he'd probably had just about enough of people mentioning it. "All they taught us in Thedosian History was that it used to have issues with corrupt senators."

"It still does," scoffed Fenris, his expression hardening as he sneered down at the sidewalk. "The reformed council toes the party line of global politics more effectively than its predecessor, but it's as corrupt as ever it was."

"So, you wouldn't recommend it for my next vacation?" ventured Hawke, perhaps too cheerfully, as she tried to lighten the mood.

"I wouldn't recommend it for anyone's next anything," grumbled Fenris, his voice still oddly sharp. "It's a degenerate wasteland."

Hawke wished that she could rewind thirty seconds and erase the whole bitter tangent of their conversation. It had been going so well, walking together in the moonlight and sharing light conversation that had, more than once, made Fenris laugh. Then, within a few feet of her door, she'd just had to bring up something that ruined the mood entirely. If she invited him upstairs now, he'd think she was psychotic.

"This is me," sighed Hawke, gesturing at the crumbling façade of her apartment building. Fenris looked up from the ground and Hawke was a little pleased to see that he looked as though the prospect of parting so soon was genuinely disappointing. Maybe he wouldn't actually think she was being wildly inappropriate if she asked him up for a cup of coffee. "So," she drawled, taking her time as she pulled her keys out of her bag, "I'm really glad that I met you tonight. I wasn't expecting to have a good time, but—" Searching for words, Hawke shrugged, her wrist turning slightly to the side as she did so and, with it, her unfastened clutch.

It was really the clatter of the lipstick tube crashing to the sidewalk that drew their attention downwards. What held their interest, however, were the five packets of novelty condoms that were now scattered across the concrete. For a moment, Hawke only gawped down at them. Then, with a loud squeak, she dropped to the ground and tried to gather the fallen contents of her bag as quickly as possible.

If they had just been average, run-of-the-mill, ribbed-for-her-pleasure condoms, then it wouldn't have been terrible. Every sexually active adult must have, at some point in their life, been walking around with more than a few condoms on their person. But, those condoms didn't usually have large, cartoon penises on their wrappers. Large, glowing, anthropomorphized cartoon penises that were grinning and giving enthusiastic thumbs-ups.

And Fenris was squatting on the ground in front of her, fighting back a smile as he held out the last of those horrifying condoms to her. The grin of that particular cartoon penis seemed especially mocking.

"Thanks," muttered Hawke bitterly as she jammed all five of those smug, grinning bastards down into the deepest depths of her clutch.

"I'd like to see you again," Fenris said, almost inaudibly.

"Because I carry around an insane quantity of novelty condoms?"

Fenris shook his head slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on hers. There was something soft and unreadable in his expression that made it impossible for her to look away. "No. Not because of the condoms," he told her, his lips curving into a smile by small degrees. "Though I'm sure they're very nice," he added, standing in an easy motion and extending his hand to help her off the ground.

She swayed when he pulled her upright, stumbling slightly forward and coming just short of actually colliding with him. Fenris braced her, one hand still in hers as the other found her hip. Hawke smiled, still feeling a slight unsteadiness that had nothing to do with her footing. He was close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from the long, lean line of his body. Half a step forward, and she could be pressed against him, feel that firm muscle hard against her as she pulled him close. Their lips were only a breath apart, his already parting invitingly as his gaze dropped, lingering, to her mouth. She exhaled shakily, almost tilting her head to the side, when Fenris' eyes lifted to meet with hers. He cleared his throat raggedly, giving her hand a quick squeeze before separating from her entirely.

"I enjoyed meeting you," he said, sounding strained. "I hope to see you again."

Apparently, this was as much of a farewell as Fenris had planned, and he had already started off down the sidewalk before Hawke had even had the chance to regain her bearings.

"Wait!" she called out, prompting him to whirl around to face her. "It'll be a lot easier to see each other again if you have my number."

"Oh, yes, of course," Fenris said, coming back towards her and seeming honestly surprised that that thought hadn't occurred to him.

There was nothing in her bag to write with, but she was still holding the tube of lipstick that had fallen out moments earlier. When she asked him to hold out his arm, Fenris raised an eyebrow at her, but followed her instruction without question. Hastily, Hawke scrawled her phone number down the length of his forearm.

Fenris stared down at it when she was done, smiling crookedly as he observed, "You could have just entered it into my phone."

"Oh," she said, staring stupidly down at the vibrant, berry-colored lettering she'd left on his arm. "I wish you had mentioned that before I got lipstick all over you."

"At least it's a flattering color," he shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching higher.

"Right," she laughed softly, brushing her hair back behind her ear. "So, I guess that's... oh! Your shirt."

"Thank you," Fenris said as she handed it back to him. "And thank you for this, as well," he added, lifting his inscribed forearm slightly into the air. "I'll… call you."

"You'd better. I don't go around defacing just anyone."

Fenris bowed his head, his shoulders shaking just once with a laugh she couldn't hear. "Goodnight, Hawke," he said, quietly giving her one final, lingering look before he turned and made his way off down the street once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think there actually is an ice hockey magazine called Hot Ice. I was looking for something as obnoxious as, like, Cool Hunting. I wanted to call it Hip Hunter, but, alas, there is already a publication with a similar name and what I am assuming is similar subject matter.


	5. Only Fools Rush In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning(s): Allusions to canonical character death. Reference to slut-shaming. Alcohol consumption. Let me know if there's something I missed.

Hawke knew, in the morning, that she must have eaten an entire bag of frozen corn kernels once she'd gotten up to the apartment. She knew this because, beneath her pillow, there was a sticky, slightly wet plastic bag that looked like it had been torn open by a wild animal and had lipstick marks on the inside as though she had licked the packaging clean once she'd done away with its contents. She also knew that she had masturbated, or at least considered it, because her iridescent pink vibrator was on the nightstand beside a bottle of water that, lamentably, she did not appear to have opened. When she thought carefully, which bordered on being physically painful, she did seem to have some recollection of turning the vibrator up to its highest setting and essentially badgering her clitoris into delivering an orgasm. She hoped that she hadn't done that while shoveling handfuls of corn into her mouth, because just imagining that was upsetting.

There wasn't much missing from the night before. Though the edges of her memory were definitely fuzzy, the blackout was nowhere near total. Which might have been something of a pity, actually. As far as Hawke was concerned, the worst part of over-indulging was never the splitting headache, the throbbing eyeballs, or even the stomach-turning nausea. The worst part of a hangover was having to retrace, in the harsh light of day, what had happened the night before. Hawke found that viewing her drunken actions through the lens of sobriety was rarely flattering.

She reminded herself, as she squirmed down deeper into the warm cocoon of her blankets, that it could have been worse. At least she hadn't slept with anyone. Hadn't vomited in any public restrooms, gotten thrown out of any bars, or danced on any tabletops. All in all, a tame night free of the more excruciating forms of social embarrassment. For a while, at least, her night had been humming along smoothly. There was no harm in tequila shots, or in sucking lime wedges out of other people's mouths. There was no harm, either, in sharing a dance or two with someone as beautiful and energetic as Isabela. In fact, nothing at all had really gone wrong until she'd met Fenris. It was then that her night had taken a turn for the humiliating.

It was alcohol's fault. The actual number of drinks she'd consumed wasn't something that Hawke was prepared to tally, but, it had certainly been enough to ensure that, by the time she'd approached Fenris, she'd been well into the territory of inebriation. Sober, she never would have bumped a cupful of paper umbrellas with her elbow, she never would have admitted to staring avidly at him, and, had she been in full control of her limbs, then there was a very good chance that she might have been able to unlock her door without spilling condoms all over the sidewalk.

Of course, if she'd been sober, she never would have approached Fenris in the first place. And, even if it meant erasing all the tiny embarrassments that had followed afterwards, she wouldn't give up that for anything.

It was the strangest feeling, actually being infatuated with someone again. It seemed like she should have grown past the point of her life where she could feel butterflies flapping, heart racing, just at the thought of someone. There was no way that people past the age of about sixteen should have to suffer through the indignity of having a crush, but there was no other word that could so aptly describe the squirming thrill in the pit of her stomach that recognized potential and hoped for it to become something more. Maybe it wasn't the sort of thing that people just grew out of, juvenile though it seemed.

Still, before she unfurled herself from the soft nest of her bed, Hawke made a concerted effort to reign in her giddiness. She didn't even allow herself to check her phone's notifications until she'd successfully dragged herself out of bed, brushed her teeth, and washed the previous night's makeup off her face. It wasn't the most ambitious exercise in restraint, but knowing that she still possessed enough self-control to prevent herself from immediately latching onto her phone kept Hawke from feeling entirely like a hormonal adolescent. There weren't actually any missed texts from Fenris, yet, but that was more or less to be expected. They'd only parted ways a few hours earlier and Fenris didn't exactly strike her as being the overeager sort.

Once she'd made sure that her phone was charging, Hawke quietly resolved to forget about it altogether until she'd at least gotten some nice, greasy food into her stomach. That proved difficult, however, when, the moment Hawke slouched into the kitchen, she saw Charade, seated on the counter and wearing a smirk that was decidedly worrisome.

"So," drawled Charade, sliding fluidly off the counter and gesturing towards Hawke with a yogurt-laden spoon, "I got your text last night." She shook her head, clucking her tongue with mock disapproval as she snatched up her phone from the countertop behind her. Moving her thumb easily over the screen, she made another chastising sound before she added, "Such a shady-looking character. I must say, I'm surprised at you."

Hawke groaned, concealing herself behind the open refrigerator door as she pretended to search for eggs. "He seemed safe, but I figured that, if he knew you had his picture, he'd be less likely to murder me," said Hawke easily, choosing to ignore the note of teasing in Charade's voice in the vain hope that that would make it go away.

"So you said in your text," said Charade, slinking over to Hawke and crowding in close to her side. "And, since you're alive, I'm guessing it worked."

"Seems that way," agreed Hawke amiably, taking the eggs and a packet of bacon out of the fridge.

She was bending over, taking the frying pan out of the cupboard, when Charade kicked her lightly in the back of the knee. "You know what I want to know," she said, glaring when Hawke glanced back at her.

"What's that?" Hawke stood upright, frying pan in hand, and flashed Charade a bright smile as she skirted around her to reach the stove.

Charade sucked her teeth loudly, her glare intensifying into a glower as she hopped back up onto the counter next to stovetop and nudged Hawke with her thigh. "I'll have you know, you're being very withholding. That's not attractive."

Hawke huffed out a laugh, cracking an egg over the pan and tossing the shell towards the kitchen sink. "And, if my first cousin doesn't find me attractive, then who will?"

"Exactly! No one likes a tease. So, what happened?"

Rolling her eyes, Hawke relented, jabbing carelessly at her eggs and bacon as she looked up at Charade. "Nothing happened. Not like you're imagining, anyway. I flirted, he bought me a drink, we talked a little. Then, as you already know, he walked me home." Ignoring the heat of the pan, Hawke quickly flipped the bacon with her fingers as she added, "Without murdering me, as we have already established."

"And?"

Hawke shrugged, flicking off the stove. "And nothing. I gave him my number and he went home."

Charade gave a disapproving shake of her head, handing Hawke a clean plate and fork from the drying rack. "That it deeply disappointing. But then, I didn't hear anyone sneak out this morning, so I kind of figured. And believe me, I was listening. Intently."

"Perv," said Hawke, around a mouthful of egg.

"Concerned citizen," Charade countered loftily. "You're the one who wanted me to make sure you lived through the night."

Hawke shrugged, shoveling uninterrupted forkfuls of food into her mouth so that she'd have an excuse for not responding.

She didn't blame Charade for being curious. Not really. The sad fact of the matter was that this somewhat uneventful incident with Fenris was the nearest thing to sexual intrigue that Hawke had experienced in years. There was a depressing amount of novelty to the fact that Hawke had had a moderately successful interaction with a member of the opposite sex. The last time that Hawke had even entertained the notion of sleeping with someone, it had ended badly enough that even Charade hadn't raised the subject since. Ultimately, it had been more embarrassing than genuinely traumatic, but it was still something that Hawke would have preferred to forget.

It had been just after she'd moved to Kirkwall, while she was still in the early stages of adjusting to life in the Free Marches. Charade, out of pity or kindness or some combination of the two, had issued her first invitation to introduce Hawke to the city's nightlife, and, because it had seemed like a good idea at the time, Hawke hadn't hesitated to accept the offer. Though it had been incredibly misguided, she'd felt sure that going out and getting laid would be the ideal solution to at least some of her more pressing emotional problems. The perfect way to feel wanted and loved, to prove that everything was normal and that she wasn't broken after all.

Hawke didn't remember much about the man that she'd gone home with that night. His blond hair had been soft in her hands and his eyes had been warm like whiskey, but, other than that, there was little that she'd recorded to long-term memory. It had felt right, and wonderfully wrong, when he'd held her close and panted against her ear that he wanted to take her home with him. She'd agreed, sliding her hands down the back of his pants as she rubbed against him, and, after a ten minute cab ride, they'd gotten back to his apartment.

It wouldn't be the first time that she'd had casual sex. In fact, except for a very few exceptions, that was all she'd ever had. She had always enjoyed it and no one ever got hurt, so she'd never seen any harm in it. She always made it a point to be careful. Always used condoms, even for blowjobs, and took the pill, just in case. She was always safe.

But that night, tumbling into some stranger's apartment with his hands tangling in her hair, she hadn't felt safe at all. She was alone, in a city where no one knew her well and where no one would really look for her if she didn't come home. She was alone, pressed up against a wall while teeth grazed against her neck and some anonymous man rattled off, in a rough voice, all the things that he wanted to do to her. And he could do anything to her. She had no reason to think that he wouldn't, no reason that she should trust him.

And there'd be no one to care, really, if something happened to her. Carver would just stare into the cameras, unblinking, the way he always did, and everyone else was gone. There was no one left. No one to cry at her funeral, no one's grieving face for the press to flash across screens for the News at 7 and then again at 10, no one to cry prettily while choking out sweet words about how good and kind she was and how she hadn't deserved what had happened to her.

No. She'd be some dumb, drunk slut who'd gone home with the wrong guy, trusted the wrong handsome face, and gotten herself killed. She'd be some cautionary tale that parents would clip out of newspapers and send to their daughters. Her mom had always been sending her clippings like that.

Hawke hadn't slept with the man who'd taken her home that night. Instead, she'd started crying, shivering against him and wetting his shirt with her tears until, uneasily, he'd asked if she needed him to call her a cab. She'd nodded and, when the time came, he hadn't made a fuss about her leaving. He'd stroked her hair with gentle hands and, with a light press of his lips to her cheek, told her that she should call him, if she wanted to.

She'd never wanted to. There was nothing that he could say, and nothing that she wanted to say to him.

Hawke hadn't bothered going home with anyone after that. She hadn't brought anyone home, either. It had all seemed so horribly pointless and, honestly, the impulse had never struck her. Not until she'd met Fenris, anyway. Which seemed somewhat inexplicable, really, when Hawke gave the matter some consideration. In her own room, having wolfed down her breakfast at an astonishing pace, Hawke tried to pinpoint what exactly it was about Fenris that was making it so damn difficult for her to stop checking her text alerts.

Obviously, Fenris was attractive. Just looking at the photo she'd taken of him the night before was enough to confirm that. Those eyes were no less stunning now that she was sober, and there was still something infinitely bitable about his lower lip. Even so, it wasn't as though Hawke had never crossed paths with another attractive option over the past several years; Kirkwall was practically teeming with people who looked like they'd won the genetic lottery. Fenris might be a bit more blessed than some in that regard, but that alone couldn't explain the force of Hawke's reaction to him.

Conventional wisdom would seem to suggest that it was probably all a matter of timing. She'd happened upon him, quite by coincidence, at a time when she was finally ready to allow someone new into her life. As logical as that explanation seemed, however, it didn't strike Hawke as being entirely accurate. If it were merely a matter of timing and circumstance, then she would have felt equally drawn to Sera, or Isabela, or any of the many other people who'd been in the Hanged Man that night. Granted, she had liked Charade's friends and had certainly found some of them appealing, but what she'd felt from the moment she saw Fenris was different.

He had felt  _right_ , somehow, and familiar. For the first time in a long time, she hadn't felt afraid. Not of him, not of anything. And, for the first time in a long time, she felt excited about the possibility of getting to know someone new. The risk of that, of making herself vulnerable to a stranger, no longer seemed as prohibitive as it once did. Hawke couldn't say why that was, exactly, and perhaps timing did play some small role. Regardless, and in spite of the inherent childishness of harboring a crush, it was oddly nice to be interested in someone again. She had almost forgotten about the nervous pleasure of waiting to hear from someone she actually liked.

Of course, after a few days had passed with no communication whatsoever, there was considerably less pleasure and a great deal more nervousness.

Saturday was, by far, the most humiliating. Most of Hawke's day was spent nursing her hangover, but she kept her phone continually beside her, checking it far more frequently than she ordinarily did. By the time that evening came around, and Charade invited Hawke out for another night, Hawke excused herself by saying that she really needed to stay in and make progress on some job applications. Truthfully, her intention was to keep her night free, in the event that Fenris wanted to make plans. That, in and of itself, was fairly pathetic. Hawke did remain true to her excuse, however, and spent the night in front of her computer, filling out applications for entry-level positions and trying to form responses that made it seem as though she were appropriately enthusiastic about the prospect of selling coffee and other consumer goods. It was only when she heard Charade stumble into the apartment at three in the morning that Hawke realized she had been filling out applications all night, waiting for some guy to text her. It was around that time that she began to feel like an unbearable cliché.

Hawke fared better on Sunday and Monday, if for no other reason that she'd begun to accept that she would probably never hear from Fenris. She knew, of course, that there were plenty of men who made it a point to wait before getting in touch with a woman. Carver, for one, had always sworn by the idiotic rule of waiting three days, so as not to appear desperate. But Fenris hadn't seemed like the sort of person who would play those games. It seemed far more likely that he had never intended to contact her in the first place, and had only accepted her number because he was too polite to reject her outright. After all, he hadn't even asked for it. He'd been leaving, trying to return to his home after a long night, and she had practically foisted herself upon him. He'd walked her home, because it was the gentlemanly thing to do, and she had been the idiot who'd tried to make it mean something more. He hadn't even kissed her goodnight and, in her experience, that was a fairly clear sign of disinterest. The more Hawke retraced her final moments with Fenris, the more cringe-inducing they became.

When the weekend was over, she resolved to stop thinking about him altogether, but was only partially successful. When she was occupied, throwing herself industriously into her Gopher-It! errands, it was easy. The only trouble was that, whenever her phone would chime, she'd feel an annoying flutter of hope in the pit of her stomach. It was a persistent symptom of her infatuation and, though she was sure that it would go away soon enough, it was still irritating.

On Tuesday afternoon, when she received a text from a new number, the wave of involuntary excitement she felt was enough to make her intensely ashamed of herself. The text wasn't from Fenris, of course. Hawke had felt sure of that even before opening it, but a quick perusal of its contents confirmed her suspicions.

Isabela, who had apparently gotten her number from Charade and must have heard from the same source that Hawke didn't have a firm work schedule, seemed to be under the impression that Hawke would be available for afternoon drinks. That assumption, as it so happened, was exceedingly correct. Hawke had just spent an hour walking someone's diarrheal dog and that experience had left her feeling particularly disposed towards getting drunk in the middle of the day. There was something nerve-wracking about the prospect of seeing Isabela again, however. It had been ages since Hawke had tried to make a new friend, and she wasn't quite sure that she remembered how to do it.

When she went back to her apartment to change her clothes, Hawke put more effort into the selection of an outfit than she would for an actual date. This second meeting would mark their first sober interaction, and, without knowing exactly what it was about her that had appealed to Isabela, Hawke was anxious that she might not possess the desired qualities without the aid of alcohol. Of course, there was always the comfort of knowing that she could just get very drunk at the bar Isabela had suggested.

As it turned out, it was some sort of sports bar down by the wharf. The kind of place that was known more for its hot wings and beer taps than for its atmosphere. Surprisingly, and in spite of the fact that it was just past three on a weekday, there were quite a few other patrons perched at the bar as the heavy wooden door swung shut behind Hawke.

Isabela was easy enough to spot. She'd chosen a table beside a grimy window that looked out onto the street, sitting with her head tilted against the glass and her feet propped casually on the chair across from her own. Hawke couldn't be sure that Isabela had seen her as she came in, given that Isabela's dark, oversized sunglasses effectively hid her eyeline, but, before Hawke had had made it a few steps towards the table, Isabela practically bounced up from her seat, grinning broadly as she waved Hawke over.

"Sweet thing," she purred, by way of a greeting, draping one of her arms over Hawke's shoulders and pulling her into a jostling half-hug. "I trust you didn't have any trouble finding the place?" As she spoke, Isabela ushered Hawke towards the table, practically shoving her down into a seated position before she fell back into her own chair.

"No, no trouble at all," Hawke smiled, feeling amazingly relieved that Isabela seemed genuinely happy to see her. She hadn't actually  _thought_  that Isabela had invited her there by mistake or as part of some sort of cruel prank, but she had considered the possibility. "This is a nice place," Hawke added, for the sake of having something to say. Truthfully, the bar didn't have much to recommend it aside from a truly impressive bank of televisions, all of which were set to different sports broadcasts. "Lots of… screens."

"It's a shithole," shrugged Isabela, owning the fact with a lopsided smile, "but they keep the taps at a cool 37 and you can't beat the location for convenience." Gesturing vaguely in the direction of nothing in particular, she explained, "My boat's in a slip nearby."

"And that's the boat you use for marina tours, or do you also have something for personal use?" asked Hawke, fidgeting with the strap of her purse as she settled back into her chair.

"It's dual-purpose," said Isabela, flagging down the only server who seemed to be working that afternoon. "I'm hoping to acquire a few more in the future, get a fleet together, but, for the time being,  _The Siren's Call_  meets my needs for both business and pleasure."

Hawke nodded, crossing and uncrossing her legs three times in quick succession before she got them into a comfortable position.

Behind her sunglasses, Isabela seemed to track the movement, her head tilting down slightly as her lips curled into a pleased smirk. "You need a drink," she said, crossing one of her own legs over the other in carefully languid motion that seemed to flow upwards through her entire body, somehow ending with her chest thrusting forwards as she planted her elbows on the table.

"I really do, yeah," agreed Hawke, laughing a little breathlessly.

When the waitress meandered over to them, her pencil poised expectantly over a small pad of paper, Isabela let Hawke order for herself, but also requested a pitcher of local beer and a platter of assorted fried appetizers for the table. The drinks arrived before long, but, apparently, it would take the cook a bit more time to prepare the massive quantity of fried goods that Isabela had ordered.

"Thank you, precious," drawled Isabela, flashing a bright and only mildly lascivious grin at their server as she bent forward to place a frosted pitcher at the center of the table.

The honeyed tones of Isabela's voice seemed to leave the girl a bit flustered, bringing a pink flush to her cheeks as she slid an empty glass on top of a paper napkin towards Isabela. "Would you like me to pour, or…?" she asked hesitantly, brushing her hair back behind her ear as she spoke.

"Oh, I'm sure we'll manage," Isabela assured her, resting her chin in her hand as she looked up at their waitress through mirrored glasses. "With a room full of eager people thirsty for you attention, we'd hate to take any more of your time than is absolutely necessary. Not while you're still working, anyway."

Hawke rolled her eyes, glancing down at her gin and tonic as she suppressed it snort of laughter. It was actually nice to see that Isabela's behavior was fairly consistent, whether or not she had had something to drink. It was reassuring to think that they might have made real progress in getting to know one another while drunkenly carousing at The Hanged Man.

"I assume that you're comfortable with double-fisting?" asked Isabela, drawing Hawke's gaze abruptly upwards. Smirking, Isabela gestured between Hawke's drink and one of the two empty glasses beside the pitcher. "I was talking about the drinks, sweet thing, but I'd be more than happy to hear whatever thoughts you might have on any related subjects."

Hawke smiled, reaching out and tilting the empty glass in a tacit invitation for Isabela to pour. "I'm extremely comfortable with double-fisting," she replied simply, her smile twisting sideways.

"See, I knew I liked you," Isabela said smugly, filling her own glass once she had finished with Hawke's. "Cheers."

The beer went down surprisingly well, especially considering that Hawke had generally didn't enjoy anything darker than a pilsner. Still, in spite of its fairly heavy notes of hops, the beer Isabela had chosen was unexpectedly light and refreshing. Hawke hummed appreciatively, lowering her foaming glass from her mouth and fully intending to pass on her compliments to Isabela, when she got distracted by the sight of Isabela with her sunglasses pushed back away from her face.

"Holy shit!" Hawke exclaimed, too loudly. It was only after the words had left her mouth that she realized her reaction had probably been inappropriate.

Of course, some surprise was probably understandable. She hadn't exactly been prepared for the massive black eye that Isabela was sporting. Hawke immediately regretted, however that her first response had been one of shock instead of compassion.

"Are you alright?" she asked earnestly, trying to look into Isabela's eyes instead of at the dark pool of red beside the bridge of her nose. The bruise looked quite fresh, still bright and lurid red in places, though it did appear to be fading into yellow around the edges.

Isabela looked confused for a moment, as though she wasn't sure what Hawke was referring to, and then laughed energetically as it dawned on her. "There's no need to look like someone kicked your puppy, sweetness. It's nothing dire, just a souvenir from a little tussle I got sucked into at Undercity."

"How did you get into a bar brawl?" asked Hawke, leaning in and speaking in an urgent whisper, though she wasn't entirely sure why she felt the need to lower her voice. Perhaps it was only that her outburst earlier had left her overly conscious of her own volume.

"Oh, who can ever be sure, with that sort of thing?" said Isabela, waving her hand airily as she chased her words with a quick sip of beer. "They start, in one way or another, and, before you know it, they're spreading, continually pulling more people into the fray until nobody remembers why they were fighting in first place." Isabela shrugged. "Hell of a good time, though. The physical release of throwing yourself into something for all you're worth, putting all your strength and stamina to the test, grappling and pulling hair and scratching your nails over sweaty skin until it's all you can do to pull in one panting, desperate breath…." She trailed off, sighing wistfully, before adding cheerfully, "In any case, I highly recommend it."

"I'll take your word for it," chuckled Hawke, squeezing lime into her gin and tonic and then, as an afterthought, into her beer. "I dislocated my shoulder in a scuffle with my brother once, and that's about as far as I ever want to test my pain threshold. I think a shiner like yours would leave me incapacitated for at least a week."

"You never know how much you can take until you try, sweet thing. What's a little pain, weighed against the thrill of contest?"

Hawke huffed out a breath of laughter, her eyes flickering over the bruise in a more open appraisal. "Does it still hurt?"

Isabela shrugged again, drinking deeply from her glass before answering. "It looks worse than it feels, I assure you. There's only the faintest throbbing pain at this point," she said, prodding lightly at the mottled skin beneath her eye and wincing involuntarily at the pressure. "Certainly not anything that a little alcohol can't cure." Illustratively, Isabela lifted her beer in a toast before taking another long drink.

Hawke drummed her fingers against the sweating side of her own glass as she made a thoughtful sound in her throat. "I might be able to help, too, actually," she offered. "If you don't mind me touching you, that is."

"Ooh, and just how invasive should I expect this exam to be?" asked Isabela, arching one of her brows suggestively. "Am I going to need to disrobe?"

"If you'd like to," Hawke told her, grinning. "But I really only need access to your left hand and your temple."

"Well, you've got my curiosity piqued," said Isabela, leaning closer across the table as she lay her hand in front of Hawke.

"Alright, bear with me while I manhandle you," Hawke said, smiling a bit nervously as she closed one hand around Isabela's, reaching out with the other to press lightly against Isabela's temple.

Hawke closed her eyes, attempting to diffuse some of the incidental intimacy born of holding hands with someone while essentially caressing their face. Keeping her eyes closed did have the added benefit of helping Hawke maintain her focus, though not much concentration was actually necessary. Applying gentle pressure to certain points on the hand and skull could help alleviate pain, but Hawke suspected much of the efficacy of the treatment was probably due to the placebo effect. That was debatable, of course, but she'd never had much faith in natural remedies. It seemed worth a shot, however.

Breathing slowly, Hawke traced soft circles over Isabela's temple, envisioning, as her father had instructed, that the pain was a small, flickering flame she could snuff out with her fingertips. Isabela gasped, the sound fading into a sigh, and Hawke smiled to herself, increasing her pressure slightly as she brushed along Isabela's hairline.

"Feel better?" asked Hawke as she pulled back, her smile spreading as she watched Isabela stare dazedly at her.

"Where did you learn how to do that?"

"My father taught me," Hawke explained casually, lifting her shoulders in a quick shrug. "He was always trying to teach me about homeopathic treatments, holistic medicine, all that. Not really my thing, but some of it stuck."

"Hm, so you've got magic fingers," smirked Isabela as she swirled her beer absently around in its glass. "I'll have to remember that. In case I find myself with any other nasty little aches that I just can't seem to get rid of."

Hawke snorted, nearly spraying a mouthful of beer across the table. She managed to choke it back, though a considerable amount of foam did manage to make its way up her nose.

"Relax, sweet thing, I was only teasing," said Isabela, looking altogether too gleeful as Hawke dapped away the beer that had dribbled out her nose. "Besides, I seem to remember you abandoning me for some pretty young thing at the bar just last Friday."

Hawke felt her ears burn with a sudden flush of embarrassment. "Sorry about that. I could have at least waited until the song was over." Isabela, who was midway through an impressive gulp of beer, rolled her eyes and waved away the apology dismissively. "It seemed like you were doing alright for yourself, in any case," grinned Hawke, relieved that Isabela didn't harbor any real ill will about their dance ending prematurely. "How did it go with the guy who had, and excuse me if I don't get this exactly right, 'a face that made you want to saddle up and ride for hours'?"

"Excellent memory retention, I'm flattered," Isabela laughed, reaching for the pitcher and beginning to refill her glass as she added, "I had high hopes for him, but, unfortunately, he had all the skill and finesse of a jackrabbit. Men are only good for the one thing to begin with, it's such a shame when they can't even do that right."

"Just the one thing? I could have sworn there were at least two," Hawke said dryly.

"Common mistake. But, that's entirely beside the point when there are far more pressing matters we should be discussing." There was something decidedly devilish in the curl of Isabela's lips as she leaned in closer and asked, her voice low and provocative, "You and Fenris? I caught the first act, but I'm dying to know how it ended."

"Well, it definitely ended," said Hawke, hoping that she didn't sound overly bitter. "Not badly," she qualified, "but, I haven't heard anything from him since that night, so I'm getting the distinct impression that he's not interested."

Isabela nodded, tracing the pad of her index finger lazily around the rim of her glass as she said, almost sympathetically, "Don't feel too bad, sweetness. If he gave you more than a polite word and a quick nod, I'd say you can safely declare it a roaring success.  _No one_  lands the White Whale."

Hawke made a choked sound of amusement, not caring that she was in danger of losing some of her drink through her nose for a second time. "The White _Whale_?" she laughed, arching her eyebrows satirically at Isabela.

Not at all thrown off by Hawke's laughter, Isabela made a vague gesture and explained easily, "Oh, you know—white hair, white tattoos, the ungettable get." Isabela wound a lock of her own hair around her finger, staring off musingly at something just beyond Hawke's shoulder as she added, "I can't say I know him well, but I do count myself among a sizable number of people who've tried to spear the little bastard. That fish does  _not_  want to be reeled in." Isabela exhaled heavily, shaking her head. "Such a waste. He does have such  _pretty_  eyes."

"Well, that's discouraging," sighed Hawke, flopping back in her chair. "I have to admit, there was this awful little part of me holding out hope that he just hadn't gotten around to texting me yet. When your number came up earlier, I was about twelve percent sure that it was him."

"Sorry to disappoint, sweetness," said Isabela, smiling crookedly.

Hawke backtracked quickly, though she was reasonably certain that she hadn't caused any genuine offense. "You're anything but a disappointment," she said lightly, mirroring Isabela's smile. "I actually wanted to get your number from Charade, but I didn't know if that would be too weird." Hawke shrugged. "I didn't want to seem like I was trying to poach her friends or something. But, I was really hoping I'd see you again. I felt like we… I don't know…." Hawke trailed off, shrugging her shoulders as she took another sip from her gin and tonic.

"Clicked?" offered Isabela.

Hawke grinned. "Exactly."

In Hawke's experience, friendships were formed largely on the basis of either proximity or convenience. She'd generally become closer with people whom she saw every day in class, or at work, or who happened to live nearby. Ultimately, the bonds hadn't extended much deeper than that. It felt different with Isabela. Perhaps it wasn't a particularly deep connection, built on common interests and years of shared experience, but there was something about it that felt natural.

Once Hawke's initial nerves had subsided, talking to Isabela was almost effortless. Conversation flowed easily from one topic to another and, by the time that they had scarfed down an enormous platter of fried animal parts and vegetables that had been battered beyond recognition, Hawke, for the first time since she'd moved to Kirkwall, actually had plans for the upcoming weekend. That shouldn't have been as novel as it was, but she decided to let herself feel excited about it anyway.

It somehow made everything else more palatable, knowing that she had something to look forward to at the end of the week. Isabela had been somewhat vague about the exact nature of the event they'd be attending, but it had to be better than staying in for the night and wallowing in self-pity. Even the tedium of her Gopher-It! errands was rendered less insufferable by the knowledge that, in a few days, she would be doing something more interesting than staring blankly at a computer screen and drinking by herself.

Granted, there were still errands that seemed designed to test her patience and newfound positivity.

There were, apparently, sixteen graduate students camped out on the third floor of Dumar Law Library, all of whom were willing to pay good money to have twenty-ounce black coffees delivered to them within the half hour. Hawke was not looking forward to the process of actually transporting sixteen steaming-hot cups of coffee down four city blocks and then up three flights of stairs. She could only pray that the library had an elevator.

The students hadn't specified where exactly they'd like their coffee to be purchased, so Hawke decided that she might as well go to Lirene's Refuge. The quality did leave a lot to be desired, but, since she was only going to be handing off the coffee to a bunch of strangers, Hawke didn't let that trouble her too much. Timing seemed to be more of a concern than anything, and Lirene's was a walkable distance from the law library and virtually guaranteed not to be overburdened with customers on a Thursday morning.

Unfortunately, even without lines, there was still going to be a bit of a wait. According to Macha, the somewhat harried and anxious barista, people usually called ahead with larger orders, so that the employees had proper warning and could ensure that everything was ready at once. There was enough coffee brewed to fill eight of the twenty-once cups, but Hawke would have to wait, loitering beside the counter, while the rest was prepared.

Leafing absently through a pamphlet containing the nutrition facts for various blended coffees and breakfast pastries, Hawke watched Macha pack the first eight coffees into a cardboard carrying case. Each carrier could hold a total of ten cups, held upright and in place by interlocking pieces of cardboard that looked to be no more substantial than construction paper. It was difficult to envision walking more than a few feet without that contraption splitting open along its poorly constructed seams. Scowling, Hawke glared down at the calorie count for bran muffins and flipped the page viciously to the detailed information about sweet teas.

Eighteen minutes before Hawke had arranged to deliver the coffee, Macha called her name, sliding two of the carriers towards the front of the counter as Hawke stepped forward to retrieve them. Apprehensively, Hawke wrapped her hands around the handles, testing the weight and integrity of the containers before she slowly lifted them off the countertop and lowered them carefully down to her sides.

"Hawke?" ventured someone, very softly, from just beside her shoulder.

Hawke jerked reflexively, caught off-guard after focusing so intently on juggling the coffee carriers. "For fuck's sake," she groaned, looking down quickly to make sure that she hadn't spilled anything. When she felt reasonably assured that nothing scalding was seeping through the cardboard, she tightened her grip and glanced up to find the source of the voice. "Oh."

Fenris blinked at her with wide eyes, taking a small step backwards as he said hurriedly, "Sorry, my apologies. I didn't intend to… jostle your coffee."

"This isn't my coffee," Hawke told him pointlessly.

"Oh," he said, rubbing his hand over the nape of his neck as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"I mean, one of them  _is_  mine," said Hawke hastily, rambling against her will. "These carriers hold, like, ten cups each, and I only have to deliver sixteen, so I figured that it couldn't do any harm to get something for myself slipped in there. While I'm here, right?"

"Right," he nodded, nearly smiling and letting out a short breath of air that actually sounded amused. It was annoyingly endearing.

She reminded herself, as her eyes tracked involuntarily over the enticing tattoos that ran along column of his throat, that he had no interest in her. It didn't matter that she could feel the same warmth welling in her chest that she'd felt the first time they'd met, or that his hair looked disturbingly sexy when it was messy and tousled, like he'd been repeatedly raking through it with those long, stupidly perfect fingers. It was all irrelevant, because he'd had her number for nearly a week and he hadn't used it once. Which pretty much meant that he wasn't interested. Which made running into him in a coffeehouse somewhat more uncomfortable than Hawke was prepared to deal with.

She cleared her throat roughly, grinding the toe of her shoe against the floor as she looked off towards the exit. "So, yeah," she said, dragging out the words, "I should go." Fenris looked taken aback, his expression moving though a rapid progression of subtle shifts, each of which was too brief to interpret with any degree of accuracy. There was something almost pained about the final set of his features that made Hawke feel guilty for having been so abrupt with him. It wasn't his fault that she was attracted to him and he was certainly under no obligation to return her sentiments. She shouldn't fault him for being civil without a sexual motive.

"It was good to see you again, Fenris," she told him, straining to smile with genuine warmth. "Really, it was. But I have to get these to the people they're for in, like, seventeen minutes, so I really do have to leave now. But, um, you have my number, so…." She trailed off, laughing a little awkwardly as she readjusted her cargo and started off towards the door.

"I don't," he said suddenly, pivoting to face in her direction as she started to move past him.

"Sorry?"

Fenris cleared his throat, staring resolutely down at the floor as a dull flush of red crept over his cheeks. "Your number. I don't have it," he told her gruffly, his eyes flicking up to meet hers only after he'd forced out the words. "Your lipstick… it wore off my arm," he explained, looking as though it were causing him physical discomfort to maintain eye contact just then. "The final three digits, in any case, which…." When Fenris cleared his throat again, it sounded very much like he'd actually gotten something lodged in it. "Well, I don't have your number," he finished lamely. "Not in its entirety."

"Oh," breathed Hawke softly, her eyes widening. The peculiarity of running into Fenris there, at Lirene's Refuge, of all places, struck her in an instant.

Her gaze passed quickly around the room and, in the corner, beside the cart of assorted sugars and dairy products, was a table that bore obvious signs of use. It was the only occupied table that didn't currently have a patron seated at it and, if Hawke had to guess, she'd say that Fenris had been sitting there until very recently. By the look of things, he had been stationed there for a while. Beside his laptop, which had been abandoned suddenly, still open to a word document, were two empty cups and several discarded paper napkins.

When Hawke looked back at him, the faint redness of Fenris' cheeks had spread to tips of his ears and he was staring at the floor as though he wanted to burrow into it.

"Do you… come here often?" she asked, arching an eyebrow at him.

"More often, lately," Fenris admitted sheepishly, brushing his hair back from his forehead in a rough, automatic gesture as he chanced to look up at her. "You mentioned that there was only the one coffeehouse in your area, and I thought, given time…." Fenris cut himself off, his eyes going momentarily wide, before he exhaled heavily, his head falling forward with the defeated slump of his shoulders. "And it's now becoming clear to me that this has been incredibly intrusive." He shook his head, looking up at her through lowered lashes, as he added gravely, "I'm sorry, this was a terrible idea. Varric said… but, I'm sorry. If it makes my behavior any less appalling, I wasn't here every day."

"Which days  _were_  you here?"

"Sunday," he sighed, pinching his hand awkwardly at the back of his neck as though that might somehow massage away some of his own embarrassment. "Parts of Tuesday. Today, obviously." Fenris groaned with frustration clearly directed at himself, seeming to visibly deflate as he said wearily, "I didn't have your number."

Hawke nodded, gnawing on her lower lip as she fought back a smile. "Creepy," she observed evenly. "Very lurky of you."

"Damningly so?" asked Fenris, his head tilting slightly to the side as he looked at her, a hint of wary hopefulness entering his eyes as he waited for her response.

Hawke shook her head, a slow smile spreading over her face. "Very nearly," she told him, giving him what might have been loosely construed as a warning look before she added easily, "But, I'm willing to overlook some light stalking on account of how nice you were about my own creepy intensity when we met the other night. So, I can give you my number now, if you'd like?"

A brief, brilliant smile flashed across Fenris' face so quickly that Hawke almost thought she'd imagined it. "Glad to hear it," he sighed, his relief all but palpable.

"Do you have your phone?" Hawke prompted, when he made no move to retrieve one.

"Oh. Yes. Of course," he said, fishing it out of his back pocket.

Hawke took a step closer, peering at his screen as he set up her contact information, and confirming more than once that he had her number entered correctly.

"Thank you," he said, glancing over at her almost shyly as he saved her information. "And… you were charming," he added quietly, shoving his phone back into his pocket. "The night we met. You were charming."

"Yeah?" Hawke asked, earning a single nod from Fenris and a twitch of his lips that looked like a smile. "So were you," she said, grinning as she began to walk backwards towards the exit.

It was only when the door slammed shut behind her that Hawke allowed herself to make a high-pitched noise that sounded suspiciously like a delighted squeal.


	6. Sooner or Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning(s): Depression. Alcohol CW. As always, let me know if there’s something I should add.

On the third floor of the Dumar Law Library, sixteen sleep-deprived students glowered at Hawke simultaneously, as though her evident happiness were a personal affront to them. Unperturbed, and not bothering to dampen her cheer, she placed their cases of coffee on the table amid the flashy laptops and heaps of scattered books before taking her own drink from amongst the others. The fact that she had gotten a coffee for herself in addition to procuring their own beverages seemed to do very little to endear Hawke to the law students, but she found it intensely difficult to care about their scowls as she left them to their studies.

It was difficult to care about much of anything, really, except for the encounter with Fenris that kept replaying in her head. Measured by its individual parts, there hadn’t actually been anything truly remarkable about their meeting. Few words had been exchanged and the ones that had been weren’t exactly notable for great eloquence or sentiment. As far as Hawke was concerned, however, it was one of the most fulfilling interactions that she’d had in recent memory. The effort that Fenris had put into seeing her again was significant in and of itself, even if the resulting encounter hadn’t been particularly climactic. After too many days spent sulking over his apparent indifference and vainly trying to forget about him, it was gratifying to find out that Fenris hadn’t been able to forget about her, either.

The relief of this discovery was only compounded by the uncertainty that had preceded it. The subtle, persistent weight of self-doubt hadn’t been something that Hawke was even aware of until it had been removed, but, as she left the library, unburdened, she felt lighter than she had in a long while.

Perhaps it was the desire to prolong that mood that kept her from rushing directly homewards, like she usually did. As she had never felt any special interest in seeing more of Kirkwall than was strictly necessary, it was her general habit to cut through the city as quickly as possible. That day, however, she found the city and its inhabitants suddenly less objectionable than they had previously seemed. A new curiosity, and perhaps a touch of sentimental wistfulness, drew her down pleasant side streets that she had never bothered to explore, gazing thoughtfully at storefronts and small community herb gardens that would have otherwise been quite uninteresting to her.

Hawke wasn’t sure how it had happened exactly, but, over the past three years, she had seen astonishingly little of her own neighborhood. True, she had come to Kirkwall because it wasn’t her home, because its people were strangers, but there was something deliberate in the way that she had distanced herself from her surroundings. And yet, she wasn’t alone in the city any longer. Charade, Isabela, and Fenris, had gotten to her, and with them, the promise of others to follow. The city around her felt warm and real and alive for the first time since she’d come there and, somehow, that wasn’t nearly as terrifying as she’d feared it would be. It was almost nice, in a way, to feel connected.

And perhaps it was that feeling of connection, that newfound awareness of her surroundings, which caused Hawke to pause outside the broad storefront of Mercer’s Grocery rather than passing it by without notice as she might have otherwise.

It was nearby enough to where she lived, but Hawke had never actually been inside of that exact store. Of course, there were many places in the surrounding area that Hawke had never ventured inside, but there was actually a distinct reason for having never shopped at Mercer’s, in spite of its size and convenience. Charade had an attitude about chain stores and there were Mercer’s branches up and down the Kirkwall coast, even a few down in Ferelden. Hawke couldn’t claim to care much about that sort of thing, but she’d always been more than willing to allow Charade’s personal conviction to take precedence over her own apathy. It wasn’t any bother to patronize the smaller, family-owned corner stores that Charade preferred.

It occurred to Hawke, however, that a large grocery like Mercer’s would have a few things to offer that the smaller stores around her apartment building definitely lacked. Like an extensive magazine section, for example.

The idea that it might be interesting to read something that Fenris had written had come to Hawke only briefly as she’d been leaving the library, but the urge had apparently lingered. In one moment, the impulse struck her and, in the next, she was trying to come up with justifiable reasons for going into a store for the sole purpose of purchasing a copy of _Hot Ice_.

She hesitated, wondering if it was too intrusive to begin looking into Fenris’ professional life after so short an acquaintance. But, clearly, Fenris was someone who was willing to teeter along the line between casual interest and stalking, so perhaps she should simply allow herself to follow his example. Still, it was hard to dismiss the creeping feeling that she was already letting herself sink in too deep where Fenris was concerned. No matter how tempting it may be to do so, it was probably ill-advised to let a crush run riot.

Of course, she reminded herself as she lingered just outside of the store’s automatic doors, there were plenty of perfectly legitimate reasons that she might need to go into that particular store at that particular moment. Reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with Fenris. For instance, she had scarcely eaten anything at all that day, and large grocery stores always seemed to have deli sections just chock-full of all kinds of pre-prepared meals. Some of that dry, overcooked fried chicken that had spent five or so hours resting beneath an orange lightbulb would probably be very satisfying. And, besides that, she and Charade were running perilously low on toilet paper. Sure, they had maybe three or four rolls left, but it would be downright silly not to go into the store and buy some while she was right there. It would be a terrible waste of a convenient opportunity, is what it would be.

And, if she just happened to come across a copy of a magazine that Fenris just happened to write for while she was out running other errands, then that would simply be a happy coincidence. It wouldn’t be as though she had gone out of her way or anything.

It was perhaps the most spurious rationalization that Hawke had ever allowed herself to act upon, but it was enough to prevent her from feeling like an obsessive stalker as she walked into the supermarket and made an immediate beeline towards the aisle marked for magazines and greeting cards.

It had been ages since Hawke had actually spent any time perusing a magazine rack. On the rare occasions when she had excess money to spend on entertainment, she never felt especially tempted to shell out upwards of four dollars for a glossy spread of information that she could access just as easily on the internet for no charge at all. The most she’d ever done was flip through whatever gossip rags or women’s magazines happened to be kept near the checkout counter, and, more often than not, the articles rating bikini bodies or offering blowjob tips were more depressing than anything.

Given the limited selection of magazines that she’d been exposed to, it was a little astounding to see the number of different publications that actually existed. It was almost impossible to comprehend how a struggling industry could support no less than fifteen seemingly interchangeable wedding publications, thirteen separate men’s fitness journals, and more interior decorating magazines than Hawke cared to count.

Even amidst those redundant titles, however, it wasn’t difficult to locate a copy of _Hot Ice_. It was stocked conspicuously, directly at eye level, easily one of the most prominently displayed lifestyle magazines.

On its cover, looking positively miserable to be there, two young models pouted prettily in the middle of an overgrown field of wheat, with the female of the pair, inexplicably dressed in an elaborate couture gown, half-draping herself over a scarecrow while her male counterpart sulked wearily against a bale of hay. Hay was evidently very popular that season; Hawke spotted it on the covers of at least three other magazines, as well.

Holding the issue with a careful nonchalance, as though she just stumbled upon it accidentally, Hawke wandered away from the magazine display in search of the inconsequential items that she’d thought up as her transparent excuses to enter the store. Thin though it was, it was important to keep up the pretense.

By the time that she was ready to make her way towards the register, Hawke wished that she had had the foresight to pick up a basket from the front of the store before she’d started shopping. But she’d obviously had other things on her mind than the practical difficulty of juggling a large supply of toilet paper and a leaking container of fried chicken at the same time.

Fortunately, there wasn’t much of a line at the checkout, though the wait was just long enough that the man ahead of her had the opportunity to cast a critical eye at her purchases. Really, the satirical glance was a bit rich coming from a man who was buying nothing but hard alcohol, spinach salad, and warming lube, but it still made Hawke feel a small twinge of self-consciousness. She wondered, briefly, if perhaps she should have diffused the significance of her magazine with items slightly less embarrassing that bulk single-ply toilet paper and greasy junk food. Maybe she should have grabbed a few other magazines, as well, so that her selection wouldn’t seem so deliberate. People might have just assumed that she was cutting out letters for a ransom note or something, rather than thinking that she’d sought out _Hot Ice_ specifically for its insights on innovative cocktails and music recommendations that, as its cover promised, would be the perfect antidote to over-played summer jams and nauseating chart-toppers.

Of course, it didn’t really matter. No one else in the line paid any attention to Hawke and, when her turn came at the register, the young cashier certainly didn’t seem to pass any judgement on the items that she ran over the scanner. Hawke turned her own attention to fishing her debit card out of her wallet as the cashier efficiently carried out her side of the transaction.

“Did you read last month’s?” The question came as enough of a surprise that, as Hawke looked up from her wallet, it took her a moment to realize what the cashier was referring to. The girl, in the midst of attempting to squeeze a twelve-pack of toilet paper into a plastic bag that was just on the edge of being too small to accommodate it, inclined her head towards the magazine that now lay beside the scanner. “There was that thing about the personalized bourbon start-up?” She smiled with a reserved sort of camaraderie as she added, “I have mine resting in Ferelden now. Gotta have those temperature fluctuations, right? I went with licorice and orange essence.”

Hawke blinked bemusedly for a moment before admitting, “I think I missed that one, actually. I don’t, uh, I don’t really read this much. It’s just that I ran into this guy who writes for it or something, so I figured... might as well. It does sound interesting, though. Bourbon, that is.”

The girl nodded once, thoughtfully, placing the toilet paper that she had successfully bagged up on the metal counter before she moved on to dealing with the chicken. “Which one?” she asked, glancing sideways at Hawke.

“Sorry?”

“Which _writer_?” she clarified before rattling off the total charge of Hawke’s purchases and placing the second plastic bag on the counter beside the other.

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” said Hawke, shaking her head at herself as she swiped her card through the machine and tapped out her pin code. “He’s, um, Fenris…?” Hawke furrowed her brow and trailed off, realizing only after she had given his first name that she had no idea what was meant to come after it.

“Fenris Leary?” the cashier mercifully supplied, her face brightening with a spark of recognition.

“Yeah, that’s the one,” sighed Hawke, relieved that at least one of them had known his surname. It was a little embarrassing that she’d never wondered about that before, she thought, silently repeating the whole name to herself as she committed it to memory.

This information, clearly of some significance to the cashier, brought a sly grin to her face as she asked conspiratorially, “He’s hot, right? It’s hard to tell from the photo, but you just know.”

Hawke felt a hot flush rush to her cheeks as her eyes widened with genuine surprise. It had never occurred to her that a member of the general public might actually know who Fenris was, let alone that they might be interested in learning more about him. When Fenris had mentioned his occupation, he’d done so so cavalierly that Hawke hadn’t thought to make anything more of it. Clearing her throat softly, she found herself torn between the feeling that it might be inappropriate to start discussing Fenris when they hardly knew one another, and the giddy compulsion to talk about him to anyone who was willing to listen.

When she finally did speak, Hawke landed somewhere between the two urges, stammering out unevenly, “He’s definitely… nice eyes.”

“And tattoos,” said the girl appreciatively, apparently not put off by the halting awkwardness of Hawke’s reply.

“Yeah, those too,” Hawke agreed with a breathless, somewhat strained chuckle. “He looks… he’s definitely good-looking, I mean.”

The cashier nodded with a lopsided, knowing smile. “He had to be,” she said as she printed out Hawke’s receipt and slid it into a third bag along with the magazine. “Have a good afternoon,” she concluded perfunctorily, as Hawke began slipping bags around her wrists. “I hope you like the magazine.”

“You, too,” replied Hawke automatically, realizing belatedly that that response didn’t make a great deal of sense. The cashier had already moved on to scanning the next customer’s goods, however, so Hawke didn’t bother with correcting herself before making her retreat.

She moved at a brisk clip on her way home, falling back on the old habit of taking only the most direct route. The wistful urge to wander that had overtaken her earlier had since been superseded by the mounting desire to reach her apartment as quickly as possible so that she could lay back with her new reading material and her pre-cooked chicken, the latter of which was becoming increasingly appetizing each time its alluring scent wafted in her direction.

Thankfully, it wasn’t long before her desires could be gratified. After shouldering open the door to her apartment, Hawke had only to hurl the toilet paper in the approximate direction of the bathroom before she was able to retire to her own room.

Hawke carelessly deposited the remainder of her purchases on top of her bedspread before hurriedly stripping off the outer layers of her clothing. Left in the relative comfort of her bra and underwear, she fell back in a lazy sprawl across the bed, wiggling against the blankets and pillows until they were perfectly mashed beneath her. Sighing contentedly, and with a smile that she couldn’t quite help, Hawke raked the plastic bags towards her at last.

There was a great deal more squirming required to find a position ideally suited for reading and eating at the same time, and, eventually, Hawke ended up flipped over onto her stomach, propped up on her elbows with two pillows wedged tightly under her torso. With the magazine laid out in front of her, and chicken just off to the side, she was able to get one hand greasy with food while turning pages with the other.

It wasn’t long, however, before both her hands were committed to reading. Her appetite sated after a few drumsticks, Hawke’s attention turned fully to the pages of _Hot Ice_. All things considered, the content wasn’t bad. The ratio of full-page ads to articles seemed wholly reasonable and the articles themselves were well-written and entirely devoid of advice on how to please her man, which was always a plus, as far as she was concerned.

There didn’t seem to be much of anything that was especially appealing to her own tastes, but then, she probably wasn’t really part of the target demographic. Hawke had never even heard of half of the good-looking actors and musicians who were splashed across the pages, though all of them were described as being “up-and-coming” or, at the very least, “cult favorites”.

Even so, as she was flipping through it, she did find that _Hot Ice_ made for some fairly entertaining idle reading. The photospreads, which mostly consisted of fashion and festivals with just a smattering of some scenic landscapes, really were exceptionally beautiful.

There were more photos than just those relating to product-placement and travel destinations, as well. Beside each of the major sections, the staff writers had small portraits of themselves, generally smoldering into the camera or posing pensively amongst misty trees and rocky crags. It was definitely unusual, from what little Hawke had seen of similar publications, but she was willing to hazard a guess that the staff photos were included in an effort to make the articles themselves feel more personal. Like the recommendations and glowing product reviews were coming from real people instead of from faceless ad execs.

Truthfully, Hawke could sort of see what Fenris had meant when he had described his job as consisting of writing exceptionally long captions to run alongside promoted products. In spite of the low number of advertisements, or perhaps even due to that, there really were a remarkable number of brand names sprinkled casually throughout each article. There were even fleeting moments when Hawke would catch herself lusting after sunglasses that cost at least a quarter of a month’s rent, though the sensation generally only lasted until she had flipped to the next page.

By the time that she was roughly halfway through the magazine, however, Hawke had largely given up on reading the articles thoroughly. Instead, she’d lapsed into simply scanning over the enlarged quotes and photo-captions, only lingering to read further if there was something that truly caught her interest. Her attention was drifting, the time spent on each page decreasing exponentially with every passing article, when she turned to a page that made her heart leap up into her throat.

“Holy shit!” she exclaimed breathlessly, her hands slamming down on either side of the magazine, flattening it still further against the bed, as she gawped down at its spread pages.

She had known, of course, that there would be a picture of Fenris next to his byline. There were pictures of everyone and, aside from that, he had mentioned it himself the night they’d met. She had been turning through the magazine fully expecting to see him. She just hadn’t been expecting to see so _much_ of him.

Hawke’s heartbeat picked up measurably as she stared down, wide-eyed, at Fenris Leary, staff writer and senior content strategist. His was utterly unlike any of the other staff photos she had seen. For one thing, he wasn’t even facing the camera. For another, he didn’t appear to be wearing any clothes.

Against a pitch black backdrop, he was turned entirely away from the camera, naked at least to his hips, with his long, perfect fingers folded together delicately against the white shock of his hair. The lines of his tattoos—running down his spine, branching out over his ribcage, twining around his wiry forearms—were bright against smooth, bare skin. God, that skin. The sheer amount of it that was visible, the slight sheen to it, as though wet from exertion. That skin seemed almost tangible through the page—smooth silk over firm muscle, slick with fresh sweat.

Hawke traced her fingertip thoughtfully down the dark valley of shadow that lay between the corded muscles on either side of Fenris’ spine. She tried not to fixate too much on the twin dimples on either side of his lower back, tried not to let herself imagine what must lie below them, just out of frame.

But, it was a photo that invited imagining. It was arresting, captivating—far from indecent, but certainly not innocent. It was even a bit larger than the other staff photographs, as if whoever has selected it had known what that particular image would do to people. It was so obvious, such a blatant ploy.

But no less effective for it.

Hawke caught herself wondering what sort of expression Fenris was hiding from the camera. Were his eyes closed? Open? Was he smiling, faint and amused, or rolling his eyes at the ridiculousness of the situation? Were his lips parted, his eyelids fluttering, as she sank down to her knees before him? Maybe his breath would catch in his throat before breaking into a low groan as she bent forward to taste the salt on his skin, her hands tightening on either side of those slim hips. Maybe he’d quiver at her touch, his hips thrusting with a sudden loss of control, his breath growing shorter and increasingly ragged until, with a rough cry of unrestrained pleasure, he’d—

Yeah. Whoever had chosen that photo had known _exactly_ what they would be doing to their readers.

It was suddenly abundantly clear why Fenris had mentioned his byline to her with such reluctance. He’d seemed to find even the idea that she might have recognized him from this photo embarrassing. And, though his face was hidden, recognition would have been entirely possible. There couldn’t be many people in the world with tattoos like those, let alone with the white hair to match.

Looking back on that exchange, it seemed strange that Fenris would have even posed for the photo in the first place. It seemed so incongruous with the aloof, almost shy impression that he made. There had to be some story behind it, and Hawke found that she was curious to learn what it was. There was so much about him that she was eager to learn, eager to discover. Furthering her exploration with the means she had on hand, Hawke turned her attention to the article he’d written, reading it more carefully than anything else in the magazine.

He’d written about some small-town festival in Ostwick. The whole affair had originally revolved around the eccentric local custom of greasing up enormous cheese wheels and racing them down the steep slope towards the center of town, using large, wooden paddles in an effort to redirect any wayward cheese. Since its origins, the event had expanded to include live music performances, food and wine tents, as well as a rather prestigious taste test for beers from around Thedas. Though Fenris’ article encompassed many of the festivals features and curiosities, the beer competition seemed to be his primary focus. Apparently, a stout from a previously overlooked domestic brewery had unseated its seemingly unrivaled Anderfelan competitors, drawing attention to the many overlooked smaller breweries in the Free Marches.  

It wasn’t exactly hard-hitting journalism, but the pages of _Hot Ice_ weren’t really the appropriate place for incisive political discourse, anyway. And, for what it was, it was a good article. Great, even. Hawke couldn’t have cared less about some festival, or about Anderfel’s long-standing reputation for brewing and what it meant for local breweries to finally receive recognition, but Fenris found a way to draw her in, making the subject-matter seem immediate and engaging. He wrote with easy elegance, with an undercurrent of wry good-humor that left her smiling down at the pages. She could almost hear his voice in every word he’d written.

Hawke turned back to the photograph at the start of the article, a little amazed that that man had somehow managed to make her care, however briefly, about cheese wheels and beer.

She stared at the photo for perhaps a bit longer than she would have readily admitted to before catching the intermittent flash of her phone’s alert light out of the corner of her eye. With another pronounced spike of her heartrate, she scrambled for the phone, grabbing for it so energetically that she inadvertently sent it tumbling off the edge of her bed to land with a muffled thump on the carpet below.

Swearing loudly to herself, Hawke grudgingly slithered to the floor and spent a deeply annoying minute fishing around under the bed for her phone, which was determinedly eluding her.

When she’d finally laid hold of it again, Hawke let out a triumphant little shout, throwing herself back into her original sprawl and setting the mattress bouncing creakily as she tapped in her passcode and navigated to her messages.

She must have been too engrossed in reading Fenris’ article to hear her phone’s faintly beeping alerts, because the first of two texts had come in roughly ten minutes earlier without drawing her attention. Both were from the same unknown number, which gave rise to Hawke’s anticipation before she had even viewed their contents. Once she had, the confirmation that they were, in fact, from Fenris, caused Hawke to make a truly undignified, gleeful noise.

 

> UNKNOWN NUMBER:
> 
> _Firstly, I feel as though I ought to thank you for your understanding with regard to the unconventional means by which I obtained this number. Secondly, I’d like to see you tomorrow night, if that’s at all possible to arrange with so little advance notice._ [6:45 pm]
> 
> UNKNOWN NUMBER:
> 
> _This is Fenris, by the way._ [6:48 pm]

Hawke grinned down at her phone as she immediately added Fenris to her contacts.

She was already deliberating the exact phrasing of her affirmative response when she realized that, surprisingly, she already had a prior engagement. Perhaps immediately asking to shift days around wasn’t the best way to convey her interest to Fenris, but there was really no way around it, barring cancelling on Isabela, but that was a prohibitively shitty option.

After composing several nearly identical versions of her reply, Hawke settled on a response that she thought seemed casual, yet suitably enthusiastic.

 

> HAWKE:
> 
> _It’s great to hear from you! But, I’m actually busy tomorrow night. Would Saturday work for you, instead?_ [6:59 pm]

She didn’t know how long it would be before she could reasonably expect Fenris to get back to her. In the time that it had taken her to notice his texts and to respond to them, he might well have become absorbed in something else. She certainly couldn’t expect him to reply to her more expeditiously than she had to him. Hawke reminded herself of this repeatedly as she tried not to glare at her phone too impatiently.

She was only kept waiting a few short minutes, however, before her phone beeped again.

 

> FENRIS:
> 
> _Unfortunately, I’ve a flight leaving for Starkhaven on Saturday morning. I come back the upcoming Wednesday, however, so perhaps sometime after I return? Thursday or Friday evening, if that suits you._ [7:02 pm]

Hawke let out a soft curse as she read the message. The idea of having to wait another week before actually spending any real time with Fenris was tremendously unappealing. Two whole weeks spanning between their first meeting and their first date seemed to border on the absurd. There was too much time for pressure to grow, for overly high expectations to form, or, worse still, for interest to wane away entirely.

Chewing her lower lip, Hawke stared down at her phone, trying to decide how to proceed, when, suddenly, she was struck by a solution so obvious that she couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it immediately. A lapse attributable, perhaps, to too many years spent without anyone she’d felt she could call readily for advice.

Hawke tapped her fingers precisely against the screen a few times before lifting her phone to her ear and listening to its trilling ring.

“Sweet thing,” drawled Isabela warmly as the call connected. “And here I was, thinking I wouldn’t hear from you until tomorrow. So, what’ve you got running through that pretty head of yours?”

Hawke smiled automatically. “Guess who finally texted me?” she said, her grin widening until it was clearly audible in her voice.

There was a moment of stunned silence before the sound of Isabela’s bright laughter crackled through the phone. “No way. No way!” she exclaimed with delighted disbelief. “What sort of mystical, seductive powers do you possess? I am in awe. I may be in need of some extensive, hands-on instruction.”

Hawke snorted, shaking her head fondly. “See? I knew you’d be excited.”

“ _Excited_? Sweetness, you have achieved the impossible. I’d be positively envious if it weren’t so damned impressive. When did this happen?”

“Just a few minutes ago,” Hawke told her, settling back down across the bed, her feet propped lazily against the headboard. “It turns out that he didn’t exactly have my number, but we ran into each other this afternoon, so that’s all sorted now.”

“He didn’t have your number?” echoed Isabela skeptically.

Hawke hesitated before replying, groaning inwardly at the memory of her own stupidity. “Yeah, well, I _did_ write it on his arm in lipstick. Which evidently wasn’t the best plan I’ve ever had, because it wore off. Or parts of it did, anyway.”

“Hm, there’s a tactic I’ve never tried before,” said Isabela musingly. “And I don’t suppose you considered just putting it in his phone to start with?”

“Of course that’s what I _should_ have done,” said Hawke, with a long-suffering sigh, “but I was flustered.”

“I’ll bet you were,” purred Isabela, with teasing lasciviousness.

“Alright, mistakes were made,” Hawke acknowledged diplomatically. “But, there were condoms and excessive handsomeness involved. I defy anyone to think clearly under those circumstances.”

Isabela’s breathy laughter washed noisily over the receiver. “If there were condoms involved, I’d say you must have been thinking very clearly.”

“I dropped them on the sidewalk,” Hawke said, shifting restlessly onto her side as she sought out a more comfortable position, “but, I’ll try my best to think of a better use for them next time.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t bother asking what your intentions are, then,” Isabela said, the low, mischievous note still thick in her voice.

“Oh, they’re filthy, I assure you,” Hawke replied dryly.

Isabela cackled once. “So, what have you two got planned?” she asked, with a tone of sincerity.

“That’s what I called to talk to you about, actually.”

“Hawke,” began Isabela, with a solemnity that was almost convincing, “are you asking me if I’d like to join you for a threesome?”

Hawke’s shoulders shook with a silent laugh. “Sadly, no, I’m not quite brave enough for that I’m afraid,” she said regretfully, heaving a mournful sigh. “Actually, I wanted to ask you about tomorrow night. You said there’d be a few other people there, and Fenris is going out of town the next morning, so I thought—”

Isabela cut in easily, saying with a crisp evenness, “Look, if you need to cancel, then I entirely understand. These are extenuating circumstances, after all.”

“What? No, I’m not cancelling,” said Hawke, waving her hand in an airy gesture that, of course, Isabela could not see. “No, I can just as easily see Fenris when he gets back. Besides, I’ve been looking forward to seeing you.”

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line before Isabela said, “Oh, sweetness, you flatter me.”

“Well, you’re a nice person to see,” replied Hawke, smiling. “But, anyway, tomorrow night. I remembered that we’d be meeting up with a group, so I wondered if it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition to invite Fenris along. But, I really don’t want to put you out, or for him to be glaringly out of place or anything, so I was wondering what your thoughts were.”

“What are his thoughts?”

“I don’t know,” Hawke said slowly, her brow furrowing. “I haven’t asked him yet.”

There was another short pause before Isabela let out soft chuckle. “Oh, you really are a sweet thing,” she murmured, quietly enough that Hawke wasn’t quite sure that the words had been spoken for her benefit.

Then, at a much more audible volume, Isabela continued merrily, “Well, it’s high time you invited him along, don’t you think? I’ll confess, I’m dying to see how things will unfold firsthand. I’ve spent, oh, the last five years, at least, forming a theory that Fenris is actually some sort of chaste android, built in a lab for the express purpose of spreading a plague of blue balls throughout Kirkwall.” There was a distinct smirk in her voice as she added, “I can’t wait to find out if he’s anatomically correct.”

Hawke huffed out a laugh. “Let’s not get too far ahead ourselves. I do have to ask him first.”

“Well, what are you waiting for? Strive while the iron is hot, seize the day, all that rubbish. And, obviously, I do expect you to report back in full and very vivid detail as soon as dark-and-broody gets back to you.”

“I will,” Hawke promised, smiling fondly. “And, seriously, thank you for this.”

“It’s nothing, sweetness,” Isabela assured her, before continuing on with the good-natured words of parting that so often mark the close of friendly conversations.

When the call disconnected with a soft beep, Hawke looked down at her screen, gnawing thoughtfully at her lower lip as she navigated back to her text messages.

On the whole, the plan struck Hawke as being a good one. With a few other people present the next night, at least there’d be a social cushion. That way, if she forgot how to speak or something similarly horrifying, at least she and Fenris wouldn’t be left sitting in crushing silence until one of them got up the nerve to slink away.

Hawke wasn’t exactly sure how he’d feel about turning their first date into group outing, however. Still, she’d kick herself for not asking. That is, if Isabela didn’t wind up kicking her first.

 

> HAWKE:
> 
> _Or you could come out with my friend and me tomorrow night? Nothing crazy, just the opening of a new exhibit at some art gallery, but it should be fun. A friend of a friend organized the event, so there’s a few people going_. [7:08 pm]

His response was prompt, as usual.

 

> FENRIS:
> 
> _Would your friends object to my being there? I wouldn’t want to intrude._ [7:10 pm]

It wasn’t an outright refusal, which was encouraging, and did wonders in alleviating the small knot of tension that had been forming in the pit of her stomach. With a soft sigh of relief, Hawke typed out hastily:

 

> HAWKE:
> 
> _Oh, you wouldn’t be intruding. :) I literally just got off the phone with my friend Isabela and she said you were welcome to join us. I mean, next weekend would work, too, but tomorrow’s also an option, if you’d like to get together a little sooner_. [7:11 pm]

As it turned out, Fenris very much preferred meeting sooner.

That was encouraging, also.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is technically only the first half of a chapter, so I’m sorry that there’s not much to it. But, it’s been almost a year since I updated this thing and I realized, as I was writing the date scenes, that if I just put them in their own chapter, I could at least give you guys something.
> 
> Fenris’ last name is “Leary” for no other reason than it sort of sounds like “lyrium”.


	7. If Two's Company

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning(s): Alcohol consumption. References to body piercing. Let me know if there’s something else I should add.

Near the entrance to the gallery, clouds of smoke floated dreamily upwards from the smoldering cigarettes that dangled listlessly between the fingers of the clustered twenty-something art students who had gathered there. When Isabela had arrived, a few minutes earlier, she’d looked them over appraisingly, but a brief glance was enough to determine that there wasn’t anyone among them worth pursuing. Not when she had better plans already, anyway.

Isabela was at least ninety-six percent sure that she wouldn’t actually end up sleeping with Hawke, but that didn’t diminish her anticipation of the night ahead. It had been a while since Isabela had made plans with someone who clearly had nothing but platonic intentions towards her, and there was something appealing in that novelty. Hawke was guileless, tactfully forthright, and refreshingly different from Isabela’s usual crowd. Sure, there was a shadowed darkness there, as well, and a thin veneer of cynicism, but those qualities didn’t seem to have settled over Hawke organically, and Isabela suspected that it was only a matter of time before they fell away altogether. Hawke seemed to be, in spite of the statistical improbability, just a genuinely nice person without ulterior motives. A marvelously exotic find to stumble across in the wild.

It was Hawke who had suggested that they meet at the gallery early, so they’d have time to spend alone together before Fenris’ arrival. Isabela had shown up earlier even than the appointed time, a symptom, perhaps, of the slight, inexplicable nervousness and uncertainty she felt at the prospect of forging a relationship with someone who wanted nothing more from her than conversation.

Brushing the dark mass of her hair back over one shoulder, Isabela looked up and down the street at the passing cars that slowed and weaved through the tangled crowd of pedestrians that unpredictably meandered across the lanes at their leisure. In another five minutes, assuming exact punctuality, Hawke should be stepping out of one of those cabs. Isabela watched the flashing brake lights as she played gentle fingertips against the bare skin of her thigh just below the hem of her linen dress.

She hadn’t dressed with any more care than usual, but, when she’d stood in front of her full-length mirror before leaving home, Isabela had been aware that she would be spending the evening with not one, but two, people whom she found highly attractive. Just because she wasn’t going to be sleeping with either of them didn’t mean that she didn’t want to look her best alongside them. Assuming, of course, that the three of them actually ended up spending much time together. If the date went well, there was a good chance that Hawke and Fenris would end up peeling away from the group at some point. At least, Isabela hoped they would. Boy needed to get laid.

Isabela and Fenris had been orbiting approximately the same social group going back more years than she was willing to admit. She remembered, vaguely, that Fenris had been in Varric’s inner circle for as long as she had been in Kirkwall. He’d dressed differently then, with his clothes worn looser and his hair cropped closer to his head, and Isabela really hadn’t paid him much attention in those days, though he had been on the periphery of her awareness simply as a function of proximity. He had blossomed, so to speak, in subsequent years, with an evolving sense of style and a new way of carrying himself that bespoke a confidence that had been distinctly lacking when she’d first observed him. What hadn’t changed, and what had seemed unlikely to ever change, was Fenris’ habitual rejection of romantic overtures from any and all sources. His reactions to flirtation, from what Isabela had witnessed and experienced first-hand, ranged from utter obliviousness to complete indifference.

Until Hawke. Which Isabela couldn’t help but find intriguing. It was such an anomaly, and Isabela had to admit that she was a little excited to have front-row seats to see how it would all play out. Call it voyeurism or a vicarious little thrill, either description had some small measure of truth to it.

“Isabela!” Jarred to full alertness, she looked towards the curb, where Hawke’s long legs were unfolding from the open door of a battered yellow taxi.

Her face breaking into a smile, Isabela raised her hand in a wave, setting the many bangles she wore about her forearm clattering noisily against one another. Slamming the car door, Hawke returned Isabela’s smile with a grin that lit her whole face, and set off towards Isabela at a brisk clip.

It wasn’t a surprise that she looked good, but Isabela still found her eyes moving in a slow drag over Hawke as she drew nearer. The black leather dress she wore hugged and highlighted the curves of her body well, and, beneath the much abbreviated hemline, her legs were made impossibly longer by delicate, strapped heels that precisely matched the warm color of her skin. Everything about the dress, and the shoes along with it, was a clear testament to Charade’s influence over Hawke’s outfit that night. The cultured pearls that she wore around her throat, however, as well as the oversized man’s watch that glimmered at her wrist, were clearly all Hawke. Isabela felt her smile twitch to the side.

“You got here early,” said Hawke, a bit breathless from having trotted over in heels.

“So did you,” returned Isabela, reaching out to draw Hawke easily into a hug.

When they parted, Isabela caught Hawke’s hand in her own, holding it aloft as, with a quick flick of her other hand, she indicated that Hawke should spin for her. With a low laugh, Hawke obliged in turning once while Isabela looked her over.

“Well, you look fantastic,” Isabela declared definitively, lowering Hawke’s hand. “Fenris won’t be able to help himself. You’ll be lucky if he can tear his eyes away from your ass once the entire night.”

Hawke bowed her head, her shoulders shaking with choked back amusement. “I look like I tried too hard,” she countered, though she felt her cheeks warm at Isabela’s approval. “And here you are, looking accidentally inspired and amazing, as usual.”

“That’s just what I was going for,” said Isabela triumphantly, cocking her hip out to one side as she struck an exaggerated pose for Hawke’s benefit.

Though Hawke rolled her eyes, she privately thought that she really had never met anyone with such a flair for accessorizing. The widely varied chains and necklaces that Isabela wore layered around her neck, some hanging as low as her waist while others rested against her clavicle, should have looked cluttered, but they somehow complemented her, and her outfit, perfectly. The light summer dress Isabela wore would have left her looking naked without the drape of necklaces to partially obscure the skin left bare by the deep plunge of the neckline, or in the absence of the supple, high-shafted boots that extended far enough up her legs to nearly meet the fluttering hem that kept lifting with each warm gust of wind that brushed past.

There was still a distinct bruise around Isabela’s eye, with no attempt made to conceal it, but it looked to be healing well, which was a comfort.

Hawke snorted as Isabela, modeling another pose, lost her center of gravity and staggered one step to the side before she recovered her balance. “See if you book any covers that way, darling,” Hawke chided theatrically, shaking her head as she snatched up Isabela’s hand and started off towards the gallery entrance. Isabela, trailing after her, cackled loudly.

“So, who organized this thing, anyway?” asked Hawke as they slipped through the curtain of cigarette smoke that still hung thickly around the glass doors.

Isabela, lengthening her strides until she and Hawke were walking abreast, said, “Oh, that’s right; I never said.” She shrugged easily, disconnecting her hand from Hawke’s as she reached for the railing of the gallery’s main staircase and began her ascent. “Elsa, she’s in PR. The most tightly-wound little ball of bossy energy that you’ll ever meet, but she does have a terrific sense of occasion. She never puts anything together without having a partially open bar. Anything remotely interesting will cost you, but there’s all the cheap red and white wine you can drink, free of charge.”

Isabela skipped quickly up the last few steps to the first landing, then glanced back at Hawke, who had fallen a few paces behind, as she added, “This whole thing is really more of a pre-game than anything. A bit of fun and free booze before the bars get going. You’re coming to those, too, by the way.” Then, as an afterthought, she added musingly, “Though, if you haven’t dragged your boy off to some dark corner by then, you may be dead to me.”

“I wouldn’t put it past me,” said Hawke as they mounted the next series of stairs together. “It feels like I’m always ditching you to chase after some guy.” The words came out sounding a trifle more self-effacing than she had intended.

Isabela laughed, however, tossing her hair as she sent a playful smirk in Hawke’s direction. “Make no mistake, sweet thing: I’d do the same to you, were our places changed. When I see something I like, I go after it. No one’s going to just toss things in your lap; you have to seize what you want when an opportunity presents itself. Nothing wrong in pursuing a little ruthless self-interest.” Isabela swayed closer, a mischievous glint in her eyes as she added significantly, “Particularly when there’s booty involved.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” said Hawke reverently, her lips curving irrepressibly as she fought back a grin.

When they reached the final landing at the top of the staircase, it was already congested with cluttered groups of people who, for whatever reason, weren’t quite ready to actually commit to entering the exhibition. Filtering out from a room at the end of a short hallway, the thump of a bassline pulsed distinctly as Hawke and Isabela moved through the thin crowd in the direction of the source of the music.

Just outside of the heavy doors to the exhibit, however, Isabela’s phone chimed loudly and brought them to an abrupt halt. A short glance at the screen, and Isabela announced, “Alright, apparently there’s been a catastrophic lighting emergency, so Elsa’s going to be out of her mind for at least the next half-hour. Sera’s on her way, though, which is much sooner than expected, honestly.” Isabela waved one hand airily as she stashed away her phone once more. “You’ve met her.”

Hawke nodded once. “Asymmetrical blonde bob, thick Ferelden accent?”

“That’s the one,” Isabela confirmed, grabbing ahold of the brushed nickel handles of the large double-doors and pulling hard.

From what Hawke could tell from her initial glance around the wide, open space, the photography mainly featured shots of the human body in extreme close-up. Something about the framing of the photographs—the way that they conspicuously lacked any precise indication of the sex of the subjects—seemed to suggest that the artist was attempting to depict beauty removed from the performativity of gender. The raw, authentic beauty of the human form removed from social constructs. Something like that. It was hard to really tell much from all the pictures of pert, perky nipples.

There didn’t seem to be anything particularly groundbreaking about the concept or the execution, but there was still a considerable crowd gathered together and the overall atmosphere of the room was actually wonderfully inviting. Aside from the oblong puddles of precise, focused light that spilled down onto the photographs themselves, the lighting was dim and suggestive of intimate possibilities. The only light that shone for the purpose of illuminating anything other than artwork was a single muted, pink spotlight that was directed at a round, raised platform towards the center to the room, where a lone performer was inexpertly lip-syncing along to an old pop song that Hawke hadn’t heard since she was an undergraduate. That was a little odd, though the crowd did seem to be enjoying it.

Hawke cocked her head to one side, staring bemusedly at the stage. “Do you think there’s an artist’s statement we should read or something?” she asked, tilting sideways towards Isabela.

“Who cares?” Isabela said, already enthusiastically bobbing along to the music. “I just want to see if there’s any nice, arty pictures of asses. But not without a drink in me, first. Bar?”

“Bar,” agreed Hawke, following Isabela as she set off towards one of two tables where a harried bartender was dispensing clear plastic cups full of alcohol to the thirsty throng that had amassed there. Apparently, Hawke and Isabela were far from being the only people present with an appreciation for free wine.

The real challenge came when they finally had their drinks in hand and had to break free from the crowd without accidentally sloshing any wine onto the gallery floor. It was a delicate process, cradling their cups and moving incrementally towards a less congested section of the room. Once they could be reasonably certain that no wayward patron of the arts was going to elbow them in passing, Isabela and Hawke took simultaneous gulps.

Hawke pulled a face as she lowered her cup, her mouth flooded with cloying sweetness. Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and, as she examined the photograph that she and Isabela had happened to settle in front of, Hawke took another sip, more delicately this time.

The photo before them, mounted on a sturdy-looking partition rather than on one of the proper walls, wasn’t of anything particularly shocking, and Hawke could tell from Isabela’s heavy sigh that she was disappointed by its tame content. Instead of a firm buttocks, or something similarly entertaining, the photograph captured the pronounced curve of a ribcage, swelled with a caught breath, and the very beginnings of a lean abdomen. It was somewhat off-putting, Hawke thought, that she could make out so many of the individual ribs, as they pressed against the glossy skin that that contained them. Taking another drink, she glanced towards Isabela, who shrugged.

“I do like the goosebumps,” said Isabela, as her eyes swept disinterestedly over the photograph before flicking back towards Hawke. “I love a good shiver.”

Hawke smirked down into her cup as she made a soft, noncommittal noise of agreement.

The next photograph they meandered towards, hanging a little nearer to the corner of the room, brought an immediate and broad smile to Isabela’s lips. “See, _this_ I like,” she announced, gesturing expansively to encompass the whole of the photo. Hawke chuckled warmly, though she did join Isabela in admiring one of the many nipples that were on display that night. This particular one was tightly erect, pebbled from either cold or stimulation, and featured a brightly shining metal bar pierced through it.

“No arguments here,” Hawke said, mirroring Isabela’s wide smile. “I have fond memories of rolling something very similar around on my tongue for a few weeks in my early twenties.”

Isabela laughed, keeping her eyes trained on the photo as she said breezily, “I once knew a girl in Ferelden—gorgeous, naturally, with an amazing, intricate tattoo of a griffon all across her back—and she’d melt into this contented, whimpering little puddle the moment you so much as grazed one of her piercings. It’s not something you forget.”

“I know what you mean,” agreed Hawke around a mouthful of tart wine. “My ex—well, one of them—got hers pierced just after we started dating. Of course, it was an entire age before we could actually do anything with them, but it was certainly an experience worth having.”

“And here I thought you were such a nice girl,” teased Isabela, making a show of her shocked disapproval.

“I _am_ a nice girl,” protested Hawke easily, lifting her shoulders in a casual shrug. Then, her lips quirking sideways and her eyes lighting with something that verged on being devilish, she added, “Now.”

“That’s just cruel,” groaned Isabela, jutting out her lower lip in a put-upon pout. “Why couldn’t I have met you when you were good for a tumble?”

Hawke laughed, but she couldn’t help shaking her head a moment later. “I prefer it like this,” she said, still smiling but with a softer turn to it. “Back in the day, we’d have maybe a night. Probably less.” She shrugged again, taking another sip of her wine. “I’d so much rather be friends than a fling.”

Isabela rolled her eyes, though she reached out to sling an arm over Hawke’s shoulder and pulled her, jostling, into a half-hug. “Well, aren’t you just the cutest thing?” she cooed, treading the line between sounding teasing and genuinely touched.

“I try,” grinned Hawke as she and Isabela stepped apart. They remained near enough, however, that, when Hawke’s phone buzzed loudly in her purse, Isabela’s eyes dropped curiously.

“You brought a vibrator?”

“Oh, ha ha,” Hawke said flatly, rummaging through the contents of her purse until she came up with her phone.

“Fenris?” Isabela asked significantly.

“Fenris,” confirmed Hawke, the faint blue glow of her phone catching on her features as she tapped against the screen. “His cab’s pulling up and he wanted to know where to meet us.” Lowering her phone down to her side, she looked back to Isabela and added, “I told him we’d be by the photo of the crooked spine in the far right corner.” Hawke quickly jerked her head towards the photo in question, briefly calling Isabela’s attention to it. “Figured it might be a bit more neutral than starting off with nipples.”

“You and I have very different dating strategies,” said Isabela, shaking her head as they moved off towards the far corner. “I can’t wait to see how yours pans out. You wouldn’t mind if I started filming, would you? It’s for a project I’m working on.” She lifted up her phone, waggling it back and forth as Hawke met her grin with a glower.

“As entertaining as my upcoming humiliation is sure to be, I really don’t think it needs to be documented for all posterity.”

“Oh, spoilsport,” huffed Isabela. “Now, I’m assuming you’d like me to keep an eye on the door for you?” At the quizzical arch of Hawke’s brow, Isabela let out an exasperated sigh and elaborated, “Well, it’s not very aloof to be caught staring impatiently at the entrance when he arrives, is it, sweet thing? You’ll lose all of your feminine mystery.”

Hawke sincerely doubted that “aloof” and “mysterious” was an impression that she was going to be able to convey convincingly. Already, she could feel her heart hammering out an increasingly uncomfortable rhythm, and the lotion that she’d smeared liberally over her arms and legs before leaving the apartment was quickly beginning to feel slick and slippery with the definite beading of sweat that was starting to emerge on her skin. Mystery and general sweatiness rarely went hand-in-hand.

Still, Hawke accepted Isabela’s offer to keep a watchful eye on the door, and privately hoped that, whatever charm Fenris had found in her during their first meeting, he would find in her again. There was always the chance that he found twitchy nervousness incredibly arousing.

“Fenris, seven o’clock,” announced Isabela, fixing her eyes on a point somewhere beyond Hawke’s left shoulder. Her heart launching itself forcefully into her throat, Hawke looked backwards with as much subtlety as she could manage.

His gaze was cast downwards as he made his way across the room, apparently taking great care not to tread accidentally on anyone’s feet, so Hawke allowed herself to stare safely for a moment in the comfort of his obliviousness.

Fenris looked just as Hawke remembered him, and yet it still managed to catch her off-guard. He was dressed in the same austere manner that he had been the first two times they’d run across each other—black pants, a dark button-up with the sleeves rolled around his forearms, no adornments to speak of—but the dim light of the gallery managed to soften the effect. The pink spotlight, still shining down unwaveringly on the platform at the center of the room, formed shadows of dusky lavender and aubergine in the folds and creases of his stiff, gray shirt, and lent a rosy glow to the stark white of his hair. His hair looked so soft in that light, begging for her fingers to run through it before tangling at his nape. Hawke felt herself flush at the thought.

She knew that she must be smiling; there could be no other response to the sensation of seeing him again. It washed over her, as it had the first time, in a rush more comforting and warm than the fire of initial attraction had any right to be. Like the gentle heat of sun settling over bare skin after a long winter.

A blinding flash of light exploding directly in front of her face was enough to jar Hawke out of the brief reverie she had apparently fallen into. With an indignant squawk, she spun around to face Isabela, who was holding out her phone such that Hawke could see the photo that she had just taken.

“There!” Isabela crowed triumphantly. “ _That_ is how stupid you look when you’re mooning over Fenris.”

Hawke rolled her eyes, feeling only a mild twinge of embarrassment. “Whatever. He looks good.”

“Yes,” acknowledged Isabela indulgently as she slipped her phone back into her purse, “but he always looks good, sweetness. So, you can’t go letting yourself get starry-eyed and smitten every time the boy puts on a collared shirt and a tight pair of pants.”

“Alright, fine,” said Hawke, letting out a little huff. “If I get too embarrassing, you have full license to give me a quick slap.”

“Ooh, something to look forward to,” said Isabela with a glee that was worrying. “The night just keeps getting better and better. Now, stop sneaking looks. He’s almost here and you’re being very obvious.”

Not looking proved impossible, however, and, really, Hawke didn’t much see the sense in staring resolutely at the back wall while Fenris crossed the final few feet to where she and Isabela stood. It wasn’t as though he didn’t know that she had been waiting there for him. It seemed natural enough that she should be scanning the crowd for his face, and, when their eyes met, it seemed natural also that she should wave him over as the last distance between them closed.

Fenris was smiling as he approached, the somewhat tentative curve of his lips becoming markedly more pronounced when he received an answering grin from Hawke. She found herself drawn in towards him, taking several short strides in his direction, so that, when they met, she and Fenris were a few paces away from where Isabela stood.

When they were near enough to one another that an exchange of greetings was inevitable, Hawke immediately began by leaning in towards Fenris, realizing only after her body was in motion that she had no idea whether she had intended to go in for a kiss or for a hug. Neither seemed quite right and, adding to the inscrutability of the situation, was the sudden forward movement that Fenris was making, as well. Caught in a moment of uncertainty, Hawke completed neither gesture successfully, and both she and Fenris were left teetering awkwardly in place until, overwhelmed by the need to put an end to it somehow, Hawke finally reached out and gave him several firm pats on the shoulder.

“Hi,” she said with unconvincing brightness, dropping her arm back down to her side and taking a small step backwards.

“Hello,” replied Fenris, sounding decidedly amused as he looked up from the shoulder that she had just touched.

“Hi,” Hawke echoed, without meaning to.

Fenris pressed his lips firmly together, the corners of his mouth trembling once or twice before, with a composed nod, he said, “Hello,” for the second time.

“Oh my god, this is unbearable,” muttered Isabela in a faint, agonized whisper. Mercifully, before the extended greetings could go on for any longer, she stepped forward and offered her hand to Fenris, saying, at a much more audible volume, “I’m Isabela, Hawke’s friend.”

“Fenris,” he said, shaking the hand Isabela held out to him. “I believe we’ve met before, though perhaps not officially.”

Isabela’s smile widened considerably at the acknowledgement of recognition. “That’s right, you’re Varric’s friend. I barely recognized you without a card table between us.”

He nodded once, saying easily, “Yes, Wicked Grace. I’ve stopped playing while you’re at the table, however. I’ve lost that way too often.”

“I do seem to have some vivid memories of that,” said Isabela, sounding not a little bit smug. “The last time we had you at the table, you quite literally lost your shirt.”

“I’m fortunate it wasn’t more. You were giving even Varric a run for his money, as I recall.”

“Well, I cheat,” admitted Isabela, looking proud of herself nonetheless.

“Ah, but so does Varric.”

“You may be the last honest man at the table.”

“Hence my many losses,” said Fenris with a quick flash of a crooked smile. Isabela’s lips parted once more, perhaps simply to inhale or perhaps to say something further, but Fenris’ gaze had already turned to Hawke. He seemed concerned that her mind might have wandered during the short exchange with Isabela, because, before he spoke, Hawke felt the light brush of his hand against the small of her back, as though to draw her attention. “I’m going for a drink. Can I get you anything?” he asked when Hawke looked over at him with widened eyes. She was acutely aware of the slight pressure of his palm, the light sweep of his fingertips over the back of her dress. It shouldn’t have felt like much of anything, but the warmth of his hand seemed to radiate outwards from the point of contact until she could feel it through her entire body.

“White wine?” she said, smiling with soft gratitude.

Fenris nodded, repeating her request quietly to himself once before glancing back towards Isabela. “Anything for you?”

Isabela was peering over at them, her eyes alight with delighted fascination, and her cup already raised to her mouth in what was, no doubt, and unsuccessful attempt to conceal her widening smirk. “I’m all set, thanks,” she said, lifting her cup in an abbreviated toast before taking another sip of its contents.

The weight of Fenris’ hand against Hawke’s back increased almost imperceptibly before it was removed entirely. When Fenris turned, making his way to the nearest bar, Hawke had only a moment to appreciate the view of his retreating figure before Isabela glided in close next to her and marveled, “That is literally the nicest he has _ever_ been to me.” Shaking her head, she stared after Fenris in amazement before whipping around to face Hawke, wearing an expression of pure, almost fiendish delight. “He _likes_ you,” Isabela said gleefully, nudging Hawke with her shoulder. “Already fetching you drinks, sucking up to your friends.”

Hawke chuckled under her breath. “Or,” she said, drawing out the word, “he’s just a nice person.”

Isabela looked over at Hawke as though she couldn’t begin to comprehend such an impossible level of naivety. “Oh, you sweet, simple child, that is so precious,” she said, shaking her head. “I should wrap you up in velvet and take you home with me. Tuck you safe in a drawer where none of the bad things can get to you.”

Hawke pouted. “Does it have to be a drawer? Can’t I at least have a closet?”

“Sadly no. I need that space for boots,” Isabela sighed regretfully. “It’s the drawer or nothing.”

Hawke sucked in air through her teeth, giving the matter some conspicuous thought before finally concluding, “Then, I guess I’ll just have to take my chances here on the outside.”

“Suit yourself, sweet thing,” said Isabela amiably. Her eyes flicked between Hawke and the distant point where Fenris stood as she added, “So, be honest, now that the boy is here and your date has officially started, are you sure you don’t want me out of your hair? I’d hate to be a cockblock.”

“Isabela, if it weren’t for you, Fenris and I would probably still be saying ‘hi’ back and forth like a couple of idiots. You may have single-handedly saved the night, so, trust me, I am positively thrilled that you are here,” Hawke told her, reaching out to clutch Isabela’s arm in a tight, affectionate squeeze. It struck Hawke in the next moment, however, that perhaps Isabela would have preferred to be doing something else with her time, and her inquiry had merely been an attempt at making a graceful exit. With a shadow of mild concern crossing over her expression, Hawke asked earnestly, “You’re not uncomfortable, are you? I can probably keep myself in check, if you’d rather be doing something else.”

“Don’t worry, it takes a lot more than tagging along on a date to make me uncomfortable. Like they always say: two’s company, but three is better.” The lusty wink Isabela used to emphasize her point made it impossible for Hawke not to laugh.

“Is _that_ what they say?”

Isabela shrugged. “It should be.”

There could very well be some truth to that, actually. It certainly seemed to Hawke that Isabela’s presence was alleviating some of the inevitable pressure of a first date. Not all of it, of course. Hawke had been nervous to the point of nauseated throughout most of the day, and through much of the night before. She’d showered and shaved twice that evening, groomed herself far more thoroughly than she ordinarily did, and had changed her clothes at least a dozen times before she had finally accepted Charade’s offer to dress her.

It had simply been too long since she had gone out with someone. She was entirely out of practice. Hawke had racked her brain during the cab ride to the gallery, trying to remember what it was exactly that people even talked about on dates. Books? Music, probably. And, of course, there really ought to be at least some obvious flirtation, to make intent clear. It all seemed strangely intimidating, but it had helped, as she’d mentally prepared herself for her first date in three years, to know that there would be a friend there to support her during the night to come.

The fact that Isabela and Fenris already knew one another, and were capable of carrying on a conversation on their own, was just an added bonus. They didn’t know each other particularly well, as evidenced by Isabela’s conspicuous surprise that Fenris had even remembered who she was, but they clearly shared at least some history and a few mutual acquaintances, which meant that the full weight of balancing conversation between the three of them would not rest solely on Hawke’s shoulders.

Isabela didn’t seem to like being thanked very much, however, so Hawke only voiced her gratitude one or two more times before Fenris returned, carrying a cup of red wine for himself and white for Hawke, as requested.

Hawke thanked him, smiling as she accepted the drink he offered to her.

The first sip was startling. The wine that she and Isabela had been drinking earlier had tasted like someone had mixed an overly oaky chardonnay with simple syrup; the wine Fenris had brought her actually tasted pleasant. The surprise must have shown on her face because Fenris, in the tone of an apology, began to explain, “I wasn’t sure what you’d like. It’s dry, I know, so, if you’d rather something else—”

“It’s perfect,” Hawke assured him. It was, after all. With visible relief, Fenris nodded once, smiling as he came forward to stand comfortably beside Hawke.

The three of them naturally formed their own small cluster amidst the crowd of the gallery, configuring themselves rather like the points of an exceptionally acute triangle. All of their bodies angled inwards, for the ease of conversation, Isabela stood somewhat apart from the others, while Fenris positioned himself near enough to Hawke’s side that she didn’t think she was imagining the faint smell of plain, unscented bar soap that still clung to his freshly showered skin.

“You look… by the way. If I didn’t say so earlier,” Fenris said, speaking to Hawke, but directing his gaze mostly into his wine.

“You didn’t say so now,” she replied, with a soft chuckle.

His head still bowed, Fenris let out a faint, amused exhalation of his own. When he did raise his eyes to meet hers, there was mirth in them still, though it faded into something else as he said, more decisively, “You look very nice.”

“Yeah?” grinned Hawke, not bothering to disguise her pleasure. “So do you.”

Fenris laughed again, or made a sound very much like a laugh, as his head dropped forward once more with what looked suspiciously like bashfulness. He changed the topic of conversation quickly enough, in any case.

Glancing around the room, seeming to look for something to divert attention away from himself, Fenris found what he was searching for in the form of a photograph that hung on a partition a yard or so away from where they stood. Hawke wished that she had noticed it before she had designated this corner as their meeting place.

Captured in black-and-white, as so many of the photos were, was the full curve of a bare ass, belonging to someone who had been bending over just enough to reveal a hint of the darkening skin and light, downy fur surrounding their asshole. Thankfully, said hole was not quite visible.

“Interesting subject matter,” observed Fenris, his eyes lingering on the photo a moment longer before sweeping generally around the rest of the room. To Hawke’s relief, Fenris seemed neither offended nor titillated by the abundant nudity on display. Rather, he seemed to be taking it very much in stride, and with an appropriate level of wry amusement.

Still, she didn’t want him to presume that she had purposefully surrounded him with suggestive photography in a clumsy attempt to pique his arousal. Clearing her throat somewhat delicately, Hawke said, “Isabela’s friend, Elsa, organized the event, so that was the main draw tonight. The photography has certainly been… illuminating, though.”

“Come for the alcohol, stay for the asses,” Isabela interjected brightly, gesturing towards the photograph with her cup.

“Personally, I’m staying for the performance artist,” Hawke shrugged, with a short glance back towards the interpretive dance that was slowly escalating at the center of the platform. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen someone making love to a feather boa.” Fenris’ lips turned upwards, his shoulders gently shaking with muffled laughter. Hawke couldn’t help the small surge of triumph she felt at his response.

“Really?” Isabela said, feigning surprise. “You haven’t been spending enough time with quality people, then.”

“Obviously not,” Hawke agreed. “Must have fallen in with a bad crowd, somehow.”

“Not to worry,” began Isabela, “you have me now, and I can guarantee a lot more fun with feathers in your fut—”

She was cut off abruptly when a blonde mass of scrawny limbs sprang up suddenly, as if from nowhere, and pulled her into the most vigorous hug that Hawke had ever seen.

“Izzy!” exclaimed the new arrival, whom Hawke now vaguely recognized as Sera. She remembered that blonde crop of hair, anyway. “Been looking all over, you box of biscuits. Must have walked past fifty blurry pictures of nobble-knees on the way in, searching for you.” Sera gave Isabela a final shake before releasing her, staggering back a step or two before she continued, in a rapidly delivered spill of words, “I mean, what’s the point? Who wants to look at some scrabbly old knee, anyway? Like these artsy-fartsy morons can’t figure anything better to waste money on than stupid pictures of stupid arseheads being stupid.” Sera thrust her tongue out, making a loud, gagging sound of derision before adding, with a cackle, “I should just snap of picture of a dog’s bullocks and make a fortune, yeah? Like these knobheads would know the difference.” With another cackle, and apparently satisfied with her own analysis of the art on display, Sera wheeled to face fully towards Hawke. “So, you’re Hawke, right? Met you the other night. Gave me a run for it with that tequila, yeah, before you went waltzing off with this one.” She nudged Isabela in the side with her elbow, not hard enough to hurt, and then looked towards Fenris. “This one I don’t know.”

“Fenris. A pleasure,” he said lightly, his expression touched with good-humor as he extended his hand to Sera. She accepted the greeting, giving his offered hand a vigorous shake.

“I’m Sera. So, you’re with her, right?” she said, indicating Hawke with a tilt of her cup that caused the maraschino cherries floating abundantly in her murky, brown beverage to bounce sluggishly against one another. “I’d do the girly thing and ask how you met and all that, but I’m bored at the thought of it, honestly, and I’d rather not think about _it_ squelching about like a spoon stuck in custard.” At that, Fenris subtly turned his head to meet Hawke’s gaze, pointedly arching an eyebrow as his lips lifted minutely at one corner. She fought back a smile, also, biting softly against her lower lip. “So, let’s save it for some other time, yeah?”

“Fair enough,” said Fenris dryly. “I’ll endeavor to spare you as many details pertaining to custard as is possible.”

“What? Yeah, that. Do that. Thanks,” said Sera, with a resolute nod, before she began, once more to offer observations about the surrounding art, and the people gathered there to see it.

It became somewhat more difficult to carry on a conversation between four people than it had been with three, and so it happened that, in stages, the group of four gradually began to divide into two pairs. They remained standing as they were, gathered together in a tight cluster, but, as the conversation shifted from one topic to another and another after that, Isabela began to speak mostly with Sera, and Fenris began to speak almost exclusively to Hawke.

Talking to Fenris was far less intimidating than Hawke had initially feared it would be. In spite of her recollection that first dates generally seemed to pass like job interviews, with lots of inane questions being passed back and forth, nothing about their conversation together felt forced or perfunctory. True, the questions asked and answered weren’t notable for any spectacular depth or insight, but the desire to know more about one another was genuine. Hawke knew that, really, there was no cosmic significance to the fact that she and Fenris both liked the same sort of books (old, carefully written, with bittersweet endings), or that they listened to the same sort of music (none, unless someone happened to switch on the radio), but she still relished every commonality that they uncovered. She found the differences intriguing, as well, as every new piece of information gathered came together to form a more complete picture of who Fenris was. And she found that she very much liked the person she was discovering.

It wasn’t long, however, before the noise level in the gallery, as well as the close proximity of two other people, began to feel like something of an impediment to their conversation. Hawke was growing increasingly aware that the night had very little chance of taking a turn for the romantic when the thudding beat of a song about nymphomaniacs was playing in the background. Not far away, however, there was a large, plate glass door that led out onto what looked to be a very promising balcony.

Hawke glanced over at Isabela and, finding her sufficiently engrossed in lively discussion with Sera, decided that she and Fenris were unlikely to be overly missed, were they to slip away for a while.

“It’s getting a little hot in here,” she said, rather abruptly. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in getting a breath of fresh air out on the balcony?” She inclined her head towards the door with a hopeful smile.

Fenris looked more than ready to voice his agreement, but, unfortunately, he had not been the only person to hear Hawke’s suggestion.

“Yes, the balcony, perfect!” exclaimed Sera. “Been dying to lob a few of these down on some prissy ponce’s head,” she added, enthusiastically lifting up her cup which, now that it had been drained of its brown liquid, contained nothing but bright red cherries. “Get it?” she laughed, straining to get the words out through the sound of her mirth. “Cherry bombs!” With continued peals of maniacal glee, Sera led the way off towards the glass doors in long, bouncing strides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with the last chapter, this is just part of the chapter that was originally outlined (clearly, the outline was WAY too long), so I'm sorry if it feels a little light on actual Hawke/Fenris interaction. The next part has less of everybody else and way more of them, honest. I have a decent amount of progress made on that, so hopefully the update schedule will be more reasonable.
> 
> Also, the Elsa mentioned is Meredith’s tranquil assistant in-game. Lest you be confused by Frozen.


	8. Then Three's a Crowd (Part I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning(s): Alcohol consumption. Let me know if there’s something else I should add.

The balcony would have been very romantic, really, had she and Fenris been alone.

Though the architecture itself was modest, featuring little else but plain concrete and simple railing, some measure of care had clearly been put into softening its industrial edges. White paper lanterns had been draped elegantly along the eves of the building, and, twisting throughout the stark metal railing, were thin copper strands of fairy lights that cast a faint, golden glow. Other people had already moved outside, presumably drawn in by the lure of twinkling lights and fresh air, but it wasn’t crowded just yet. The couples who had wandered out onto the balcony seemed to have had ideas very similar to Hawke’s and were too much engrossed in one another to take much notice of newcomers.

That was, at least, until Sera bolted forward and began chucking maraschino cherries down into the sculpture garden that lay below. She did attract a little interest, then, but not much, considering.

Hawke, Isabela, and Fenris followed after, but without quite the same level of exuberance as Sera had displayed. Fenris, hands shoved deep into his pockets with studied nonchalance, walked a pace or two ahead of Hawke and Isabela, who had intentionally fallen back while in the midst of a silent conversation that consisted solely of hand gestures, mouthed words, and expressively arched eyebrows.

It was a hurried exchange between them, Isabela mouthing that she was sorry to be intruding, Hawke flapping her hand dismissively to communicate that it was entirely alright. The gestures grew increasingly vague and convoluted as the exchange went on, but the overall message remained clear. Hawke was insistent that she didn’t mind Isabela or Sera being there, and Isabela was determined to find an excuse to leave Hawke and Fenris alone together as soon as possible. The discussion, if it could be called that, ended with Isabela making a hand gesture so explicitly crude that Hawke couldn’t hold back a cackle of laughter, which effectively drew Fenris’ attention and made any further covert conversation impossible. 

Hawke smiled at him a little apologetically, in case he’d thought that they had been laughing at him. If his easy smile and nod were anything to go by, it didn’t appear as though he had had any such concerns.

Hawke pulled alongside Fenris as he moved to stand at the edge of the balcony, where Sera was still happily pelting strangers with small stone fruits. It was not an easy thing to ignore, what with Sera’s dramatic wind-ups before a throw and the boisterous crows of triumph when she successfully hit her target (which was often), but Hawke found it to be a more entertaining diversion than she had expected. Childishness was a privilege that Hawke had never really allowed herself, even when she had been young enough to be entitled to it, but she couldn’t deny that she had always liked watching other people embrace that light-hearted, joyful irresponsibility of chaotic youth. Hawke watched, a little wistfully, as Sera snorted out an undignified laugh and quickly ducked down to hide from the curious upward glances of her befuddled victims.

Fenris was watching, also, a subtle trace of the same wistfulness Hawke was feeling evident in his expression. She found herself wondering, only passingly, if perhaps he had grown up quickly, too. He must have felt her eyes on him, however, because, when he glanced towards Hawke a moment later, one of his eyebrows was arched expectantly, a wry twist to his lips.

Hawke cleared her throat, glancing skyward as though she had not, in fact, been staring at him and had simply been letting her gaze wander around without any particular object. It was not very convincing.

“It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?” she remarked casually, leaning back against the railing and keeping her eyes trained resolutely overhead.

Fenris let out a thoughtful hum, looking up at the same arbitrary patch of sky that Hawke was examining. “It is,” he agreed as they watched an airplane flickering its way across the gray, Kirkwall sky. “It’s beginning to feel almost as though the season has finally turned.”

Isabela, who had been hovering on Sera’s other side, drifted closer to where Hawke and Fenris stood and interjected mildly, “Here’s hoping that summer has the decency to stick this time. I’ve got tours starting up next week and nothing kills business quite like sudden showers and shuddering seas.” With a light press of her fingertips against the darkened skin around her eye, she added, “With any luck, the bruise will have gone down by then, as well.” She sighed, shaking her head regretfully. “Those tourists spook so easily.”

“Isabela enjoys the occasional bar brawl,” Hawke explained to Fenris in an unmuted aside. “Apparently, they’re incredibly invigorating.”

“Ah,” said Fenris, nodding once in understanding. To Isabela, he added, “You might try a sage compress, if you’re trying to hasten the healing.”

Isabela tilted her head to the side. “I hadn’t heard of that one before.”

“I don’t bruise easily myself, but it’s been known to happen,” he shrugged. Isabela smiled and laughed once in soft acknowledgement of a fact. Something in that response reminded Hawke of their shared history and years of near acquaintance, a familiarity she didn’t yet possess. “The sage often helps,” he continued, speaking over the rim of his cup as he lifted it to take a short sip of wine, “if only a little.”

“I’ll give that a try,” Isabela said with an amiable nod. “Much though I love a good tussle, I’ll admit that this last souvenir has outstayed its welcome.” She prodded at the bruise one more time before lowering her hand, heaving an exaggerated sigh. A toss of her hair as she turned to Hawke, adding, “Honestly, sweetness, there were dozens of times these last few days when I was sorely tempted to call you over just so I could sit you down and take advantage of those magic fingers, again.” Isabela grinned brilliantly before lifting her cup and tilting a modest stream of wine into her mouth.

Fenris turned his head slowly towards Hawke, a single, dark eyebrow arching up towards the loose fall of his hair as a crooked smile appeared in stages on his lips. “Magic fingers?” he echoed, his voice a fine blend of amusement and piqued curiosity.

Hawke cleared her throat delicately, a rush of heat flooding her cheeks and burning red at the tips of her ears. “I might have phrased it a little differently,” she said, a bit primly. Isabela laughed at that, rolling her eyes.

“Oh, that’s right, of course.” She raised the pitch of her voice, in a poor attempt to imitate Hawke, as she said, “It’s just pressure points, natural remedies, all that, blah blah, etcetera etcetera.” Again, her eyes rolled and, when she next spoke, her voice had returned to its normal pitch. “Don’t be modest, sweet thing, it really is a superpower.” To Fenris, Isabela elaborated, “It’s unbelievable, the things this girl can do with her hands. My plan was to ease the pain with an artful combination of alcohol and over-the-counter medication, but then in came Hawke, curing every little ache with just a twitch of her fingers. I almost melted into my chair.”

While Isabela spoke, one of Fenris’ arms swung slightly outwards, the back of his hand grazing against Hawke’s in a caress so light that it might almost have been imperceptible had she not been so acutely aware of him. It was a lucky thing that she didn’t actually jump at the contact, electric as it was.

“It’s preposterous,” Isabela continued, “that you can take away someone’s pain by pressing their temple and pinching at their hand, but I’m obviously not going to question the things that benefit me.” Hawke fought the pronounced urge to look over at Fenris, to check his expression for some clue as to whether or not the brief brush of skin-on-skin had been at all purposeful. The touch could have easily been inadvertent, given how close they were standing to one another, but it seemed to Hawke that the contact had lasted just a moment too long to have been entirely accidental. Almost as if he had been reaching out, intending to take her hand, but had lost the nerve to follow through with it. Testing, and moved by irresistible curiosity, Hawke swept to the side with her own hand, brushing against his and lingering for less than a breath, just as he had done. “Next time you’ve picked up some scrapes and bruises for yourself, you should have Hawke give you a hand. She works miracles.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Fenris said, his voice just a little thicker than Hawke was used to hearing it. She looked over at him, and, when she did, she found that his gaze was lowered to the space between their hands. There was the promise of a smile around his lips and a hint of a blush burning high on his cheeks. Hawke felt her insides fluttering, certain now that he was as dizzyingly aware of her as she was of him. His eyeline lifted after a moment, taking in Hawke, then Isabela, and then dropping down to his cup before he took another drink from it.

Of course, Isabela missed nothing about the interaction. To Hawke’s supreme embarrassment, Isabela glanced down significantly at the gap between Hawke and Fenris’ hands, staring for a moment before she leveled Hawke with a look that could only be described as knowing. The beginnings of a dangerous, delighted grin curled at the corners of her mouth as she said, apparently to Fenris, “I’m sure you will.” The next second, Isabela turned her head towards the wide windows of the gallery. After a glance to short for her to have feasibly seen anything, Isabela exclaimed, “Oh, look! It’s my friend, wandering around inside all by himself!” She pointed towards the large panes of glass, but the gesture was broad and didn’t appear to indicate anything or anyone in particular. “Come on, Sera,” Isabela said decisively, reaching out to snatch Sera by the forearm and yanking her away from the railing. “Let’s go say hello to our friend. Our mutual friend.” Isabela wheeled around, dragging Sera along with her as she marched them back into the gallery, fully ignoring Sera’s very vocal protestations.

It was a considerate gesture, if not a particularly subtle one.

Hawke cleared her throat softly, feeling the peculiar weight of expectations settle between herself and Fenris now that they were alone together. ~~~~

She turned around, resting her forearms on top of the railing as she leaned out over the edge of the balcony. The sculpture garden, no longer besieged by Sera’s cherry bombs, lay below. Hawke watched as a couple made their way slowly along a romantically lit path, surrounded by flowering bushes and illuminated metal sculptures. Beside her, Fenris leaned out over the garden as well, folding his hands together gently, one on top of the other. Quiet descended, not uncomfortably, as they took in the night anew.

“So, what’s in Starkhaven?” Hawke asked, once she had taken a breath to adjust to the change in mood now that it was just the two of them. Fenris looked up with widened eyes, surprised either by the broken silence or by the question itself. “When we were arranging to meet up tonight, you mentioned something about leaving tomorrow,” she explained.

“Yes, I remember,” he said, smiling softly. His surprise was only the broken silence, then. “It’s for work, I’m afraid. I’ve been asked to cover an alternative music festival beginning tomorrow.” Fenris sighed, his shoulders rising and falling once. “I believe it used to be a hot-air balloon convention not long ago, so perhaps there will be some remaining element of that, if I’m very fortunate.”

“Seems unlikely you’d get that lucky,” Hawke mused. “Alternative music _and_ hot-air balloons? You’d be ruined for all subsequent festivals.”

Fenris laughed mutedly, bowing his head. “We couldn’t have that.”

“Do you do that sort of thing a lot, then? Music festivals, live shows, all that?” Hawke asked.

“More often, during the summer months,” Fenris said easily, nodding. He tapped his index finger against the rim of his cup, subconsciously matching the beat of an old R&B song that was leaking out from inside the gallery. Hawke watched the lazy motion with appreciation of both the slender digit itself and the rhythm it kept. “I enjoyed it at the beginning, but it’s been several years.” Fenris confessed this last part carefully, as if he was conscious that he might sound ungrateful. It was clear to Hawke that, although Fenris did not thoroughly enjoy every aspect of his job, he was glad to have it. Hawke nodded, understanding, when Fenris turned to look at her.

“I read what you wrote about the brewery competition in Ostwick,” she told him. Fenris arched an eyebrow at her, a symptom of both surprise and his smirking amusement. She laughed softly under her breath and admitted, “Alright, I may have gone a little out of my way to buy a copy of Hot Ice while I was out running errands yesterday. I liked it, actually. Some product placement, yeah, but it was good. _Your_ article was great.” Fenris’ cheeks warmed visibly, a kind of self-conscious pleasure crossing his expression before he concealed it behind his upturned cup of wine. Hawke took a drink from her own cup, smirking against the rim as she added slyly, “Steamy picture, by the way.”

Fenris’ eyes went wide, then, when the realization hit him, his head dropped forward heavily and a low groan rumbled from his throat. “Oh, _that_ ,” he sighed, as though the very existence of that photo was among the foremost annoyances of his life. “It seemed like a fine compromise, once,” he began. “I didn’t want to be pictured in the magazine to begin with, but I agreed to whatever they liked as long as it kept my face out of print. I’d hoped that doing so would prevent my being recognized for my work there.” Fenris shook his head a little ruefully as he added, without any real heat behind his words, “A foolish notion, it seems, as I’ve been identified by my tattoos many times since. And yet, the photo remains, though there was really very little point to it, in the end.”

He didn’t seem particularly angry or even upset, only resigned, so Hawke shrugged and said, lightly, “Well, not _no_ point. I got to see you without a shirt on and I didn’t even have to buy you a drink first. So, at least someone benefitted.”

Fenris laughed, the sound coming out in a burst past his lips like he hadn’t been expecting it. A moment, and he’d fought the sound back inside so that it became a muffled chuckle. “I hadn’t considered that. Perhaps it wasn’t a complete waste, after all.”

Hawke grinned—bright, brilliant, happy. “Not from my perspective, anyway.”

They were standing very close together now, Hawke noticed. Either by accident or by design, they had both adopted similar stances—each leaning forward, forearms propped on the railing—and the similarity of their postures left very little space between their faces, now that their heads were turned towards one another. Hawke found that her current vantage point was better suited to appreciating the details of Fenris’ features than any she’d held previously.

It was almost overwhelming to be so close. Her eyes were hungry for every detail, but there was too much to take in at once. She could see clearly the slight chap of his lips, the beginning of fine, furrowed lines between his brows, and the dark curl of his unfairly long lashes, the sort that only men seemed to be blessed with. She could see every flecked, striated starburst in his eyes. The brilliant green, broken by strands of gray and gold and colors that she couldn’t name, was warmed by the illumination of the fairy lights that were wound around the railing. She watched, fascinated, as that green darkened, his irises contracting as his dark pupils expanded, his eyes focused on her. Hawke bit against her lower lip, wondering if Fenris shared her nearly aching fascination with detail.

His gaze dropped to her lips, watching as her teeth grazed against them. Hawke saw the bob of Fenris’ throat as he swallowed, his pupils blown wide. Hawke failed to fight back a small puff of self-conscious laughter, her shoulders shaking slightly in what was very nearly a shiver.

Fenris’ eyes shot back up to meet with hers. He cleared his throat, also self-consciously. “I’m glad we came across each other yesterday,” he said softly, probably for the sake of changing the subject, but sounding sincere nonetheless.

Hawke grinned, remembering Fenris’ laptop sitting on a rickety table surrounded by too many coffee cups and soiled napkins. “Lucky twist of fate, that,” she said.

Fenris hid his smile with a now-familiar inclination of his head. “Thank you for indulging me; I know you were in a hurry. I’d hate to have delayed you too much with your work.”

Hawke wondered if she would ever stop being amazed by Fenris’ ability to talk about her “work” for Gopher-It! as though it were a completely respectable way for an adult woman to earn money.

“You didn’t,” Hawke assured him. “Which is lucky. If I’d actually been late, I think those law students might have bitten my head right off.”

“Not an overly cheerful bunch, I take it?”

Hawke lifted her shoulders, conceding, “Well, it _is_ graduate school, so the hostility and desperate need for caffeine might be justified.” Unthinkingly, she continued, “I wasn’t exactly a ball of sunshine when I was a grad student.” Fenris arched an eyebrow at her, a silent prompt for her to continue, and Hawke wished that she’d just held her tongue. She didn’t generally care for discussing her life before Kirkwall, largely because it usually led to questions that she didn’t want to answer. Still, she’d opened the door and there was no easy way of slamming it, so Hawke shrugged and elaborated blandly, “Clinical Psychology. Ph.D. track. Perpetual nightmare.”

“You have your doctorate?” To his immense credit, Fenris sounded impressed, but not surprised. He didn’t seem to momentarily struggle, as most people did, to reconcile “Hawke: Human Disaster and Professional Errand Girl” with “Hawke: Former Ph.D. Student”. That eased some of her discomfort going forward and, when Hawke answered his question, she did so without much hesitation.

“Ph.D. _candidate_ ,” she clarified. “I left after finishing my coursework, but I never did complete my thesis. So, no impressive degree, I’m afraid.”

“You’re impressive enough as it is.”

“Flatterer.”

Fenris shrugged, casual. “I wouldn’t say something I didn’t believe,” he said, so easily that Hawke almost believed it herself. At the very least, she believed that he believed it. Which wasn’t really the same thing, but which warmed her nonetheless. She huffed out a little laugh under her breath and, even to her own ears, it sounded unbearably fond. Fenris’ gaze fell down to her lips again, lingering on her soft smile, and Hawke thought for a moment that he might have leaned forward, only slightly, but whatever promise there was in that broke when Fenris cleared his throat roughly and asked, “Did you study in Ferelden? Or did you go abroad?”

Hawke sighed, but there was no point trying to reclaim a passed moment. “Ferelden. Have you ever been?”

“Once or twice, generally for work. I’m afraid I haven’t seen much outside of Denerim.”

“You haven’t missed much. There’s not a whole lot else to see,” she told him. “You must travel for work a lot, then? Denerim, Ostwick, Starkhaven… other places, I assume.”

Fenris nodded immediately, but, after some consideration, he added as an amendment, “The travel is relatively infrequent now, when compared to my last position.” Hawke made a small, interrogative noise and Fenris went on, in explanation, “I spent a number of years with the United Herald. Initially as a copyeditor, but later as a journalist. There was little need to travel at the start, but more was required of me as time wore on. Since moving to the magazine, I been given greater liberties with regards to determining my schedule. I’m allowed to remain primarily within the Free Marches, which has been far more manageable than international travel. I am generally away for no more than a week or so each month.”

Being away from home for nearly a quarter of every month still sounded like an awful lot to Hawke, but she didn’t say so. Instead, she asked, “Is that why you left the Herald?” A short pause followed her question, during which Fenris was likely forming a response or perhaps simply taking a breath, but it was enough time for Hawke to begin to doubt herself, and she added in a rush, “Sorry, if that’s too personal a question. You don’t have to answer.” She cleared her throat, then said, more deliberately, “It’s only that I would have thought writing for a newspaper would suit you very well.”

Fenris chuckled to himself, shaking his head. “It’s alright. It’s a fair question, and I did enjoy it a great deal, for a time.” Fenris tapped the tip of his index finger idly against the side of his nearly empty cup, an expression that looked almost like wistfulness crossing over his face fleetingly before he schooled his features to reveal nothing but careful neutrality. “However,” he continued, “I was being asked to write an increasing number of stories about Tevinter, given the recent political upset there and my own… unique… perspective on the situation.” Fenris sighed almost inaudibly, his shoulders lifting and lowering in a shrug that was probably meant to appear casual, but which actually only served to emphasize the tightness of his tense muscles. “It became difficult. To remain impartial, that is.”

“I’d imagine it would be,” said Hawke, remembering Fenris’ obvious distaste for his homeland. Deeply understandable, of course, given their deeply ingrained cultural prejudice against anyone of Arlathan descent. Hawke sensed that mentioning that, however, really would be too intrusive, so she skipped past it and asked only, “When did you leave Tevinter?”

Fenris’ eyebrows twitched towards one another, a small furrow forming between them as he searched his memory. “It’s been a while,” he said, after evidently giving up on retrieving a more exact date. “I came to the Free Marches in my early twenties, or perhaps a bit before. I lived in a variety of cities before finally settling here. I can’t recall when that was, precisely, but I’ve been in Kirkwall longer than I’ve lived in any one place since leaving Tevinter.”

Hawke didn’t press for a more precise timeline; she knew about running. “You’ve been here a long time.” It wasn’t a question.

“A long time,” he agreed, finishing the last of his wine.

“So, does it feel like home, now? Kirkwall, I mean. Or do you still feel tied to Tevinter?” Hawke wondered if she was asking because she wanted to know Fenris’ answer, or if it was because she wanted to know if she could ever expect to really feel that she’d left Ferelden behind.

Fenris looked at her, considering, his eyes alive in the glow of the fairy lights. A moment of silence spanned peacefully between them before he said softly, “Tevinter is where I became who I am. Whether or not that makes it a _home_ , exactly, I can’t say. It feels strange not to be there sometimes, but that doesn’t mean I would ever go back.” Fenris smiled minutely, his lips pressed together and the corners just barely lifted, but there was an openness to it that made Hawke ache. “What about you?” he asked. “You’ve been in Kirkwall for three years now, if I recall correctly.” Fenris paused, looking to Hawke for either correction or confirmation, which she provided with an infinitesimal nod. “Does it feel like your home?”

Hawke was surprised to discover that she’d never given the matter any previous thought herself. She let out a soft hum, her gaze dropping back down to the sculpture garden as she considered whether or not there was a simple answer to that question. Like Fenris, her formative years had not been spent in the Free Marches. Like Fenris, her memories of her homeland were not always fond. Still, Ferelden was the one place where she’d known what it was to feel loved. It was the place where she’d experienced the greatest joys of her life, as well as the deepest sorrows. It was the place where her family had lived, the place where their ashes were scattered. Compared to that, what was Kirkwall, except a place where she’d gotten lost?

“No,” she said honestly, though it wasn’t an answer she liked. “No, I guess it doesn’t feel like much of anything. I know I’ve been here for a while, but I don’t think that I’ve made much of an effort to put down any roots.”

“Do you plan to?” he asked, seeming genuinely curious.

This time, Hawke didn’t need to consider her response. The answer came to her instantly, fully-formed. “Yeah. Yes, I’d like to.”

He smiled again, making no attempt at concealing it. Hawke’s pulse quickened, answering his smile with one of her own. Hawke couldn’t remember the last time she’d openly confessed to something she truly wanted. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laid herself bare, or when it last was that such an admission had been met so sweetly.

There was a sudden swelling of sound as the steady pounding of an old Orlesian pop hit came pouring out onto the balcony as the glass doors swung open once again, accompanied by a merry trill of exuberant laughter. Hawke instinctively turned her head towards the source of the sound, where she spotted Isabela returning to the outdoors, nearly breathless with the force of her amusement, and trying valiantly not to let the tremors of her laughter make her spill any of the wine that she held in either hand.

Beside her, and evidently the source of whatever joke had sent Isabela off into a fit of delight, was a tall, blond hipster who seemed to be her conquest for the night. He had apparently been charged with carrying cups of wine in either hand, as well, and had his back pressed to the door to keep it open for Isabela as she passed through. Hawke had to hand it to Isabela: he was a nice catch. Good-looking, with a long, handsome face, a long, defined nose, and warm, whiskey-colored eyes that shone with amusement.

Hawke couldn’t help feeling that it was not exactly the most opportune moment for her time alone with Fenris to be cut short, but she had faith that they’d get another chance to reclaim the air of intimacy that had just evaporated with the blare of synthesizers and a burst of laughter. The night was still very young.

Hawke grinned, caught by Isabela’s contagious good-humor, and lifted her arm in an enthusiastic wave to the pair who were already headed towards her and Fenris. Isabela beamed, lifting both cups of wine in an exaggerated toast. The man beside her smiled also, easy and broad, as he followed after Isabela.

“Sweet thing!” Isabela exclaimed when she came close enough to unceremoniously thrust brimming drinks towards Hawke and Fenris, snatching away their recently emptied cups in exchange for her offering. “I hope you two don’t mind switching over to the wine of the people, because I’m not paying for drinks, no matter how attractive the pair of you are.”

“I’m sure we’ll muddle through somehow,” Hawke said dryly. “Honestly, thanks for thinking of us.”

“Thank you,” Fenris nodded, tilting his cup slightly in Isabela’s general direction.

She waved away their gratitude easily. “It’s nothing. I just couldn’t bear the thought of you two out here, nothing at all to slake your thirst, getting more and more parched and desperate with each passing moment. I had to save you from yourselves.”

“Much appreciated,” Hawke said, lifting her cup to her mouth and taking a long sip.

“I do my part,” shrugged Isabela, smiling beneficently at Fenris and Hawke before claiming a drink of her own from the man beside her. “Now, never mind us. Anders and I were absolutely enthralled by that amazing performance inside. I never knew that a feather boa could be put to such tantalizing use, but I must see what happens next, so I’m afraid we’ll have to be off now. Hate to leave you so soon, but you know how it is. Enjoy the drinks, you two!”

Isabela turned, snatching at Anders’ arm, but he proved somewhat more difficult to move than pixie-sized Sera had been. Isabela glanced back at him, noticing, as Hawke was for the first time, that he was staring at Hawke with an odd, contemplative expression on his face.

“I know you, don’t I?” he asked, his eyes trained on Hawke and his head cocking inquisitively to one side.

Hawke began to shake her head automatically. “I don’t think—oh my god, you do.” Hawke felt a sudden flare of heat beginning to burn under her skin, warming her entire face and almost certainly causing the tips of her ears to flush a shade darker with embarrassment.

She hadn’t recognized him, so different was their current context from the last time they had seen one another. The flashing club lights of Undercity were gone now, as was the deep thump of bass that she had been able to feel in her bones as they’d ground their hips together in a frantic, unruly rhythm, their bodies desperate for friction as his thigh rubbed between her legs and the heat of his erection had pressed to her hip. The dark, disheveled clothes he’d worn that night were replaced now by well-fitting chinos, supple calfskin chukkas, and a large, olive-green cardigan that would not have looked inappropriate on a man fifty years his senior. Still, it was undeniably him. Undeniably Anders, though she had forgotten the name ages ago and had shoved the rest of the memory down due to intense humiliation.

A disastrous attempt at a one-night stand that had ended with her panicking, sobbing into the thin fabric of his shirt, and accepting comforting pats on the back from a man who’d just had his hands up her shirt in the back of a cab moments earlier.

And now, on the balcony outside of an art gallery, he was smiling at her as though he had no unpleasant associations with that night whatsoever. He actually looked pleased, almost triumphant. “Hawke,” he said, his curious expression blooming into a wide grin of recognition. Hawke’s face continued to burn.

“Um, hi,” she said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “Anders.”

Isabela’s eyebrows shot upwards as she looked between them. “You’ve met?” she asked, her tone doing nothing to disguise her marked interest.

“We have,” Anders replied, before Hawke could even begin to summon a response. “At Undercity, a few years ago.” To Hawke, he added, sounding playfully chiding, “I was beginning to think I’d never see you again.”

Hawke laughed uncomfortably, remembering Anders entering his number into her phone at the end of the night, after he’d called a cab to take her home. “Yeah, sorry about that,” she said, smiling sheepishly. “How’ve you been?”

Anders had been doing well, apparently. He’d graduated from law school since Hawke had seen him last, which he stated in such a way that it seemed as though he must have mentioned being a student the night they’d met. She had no memory of it, but nodded anyway and offered her congratulations. He was currently working for the District Attorney’s office, which sounded impressive, so Hawke congratulated him on that, as well.

“And how about you?” Anders asked, after giving that brief summary of his past few years. “How have you been occupying yourself since we saw each other last?”

It was always Hawke’s least favorite question, and the one that was unfailingly asked by everyone with whom she tried to hold a casual conversation. “Oh, I’ve been keeping busy,” she said, laughing as though the vagueness of her response was the result of having too much to say rather than too little. “Too many jobs to list, a little travel here and there, just generally trying to take advantage of living in the city as much as possible.” Very little of what she’d said had been true, but, fortunately, Anders treated Hawke’s evasion as if it were an adequate response.

“I wish I could say that I’ve been doing the same,” Anders said easily, grinning. “I don’t get out into the city nearly as often as I should. There’s so much that Kirkwall has to offer, so much to see. It’s practically our civic duty to enjoy it, and I rarely do.”

“Well, you’re out tonight, so that’s a step in the right direction,” Hawke said encouragingly. Then, shoving the topic of conversation away from herself, she asked, “So, how do you and Isabela know each other?”

Isabela rose up onto the toes of her shoes in order to swing an arm over Ander’s shoulders, jostling him with comradely affection. “Oh, Anders here and I have been friends for years, now. Practically from the moment I came stumbling onto the shores of Kirkwall. Though we _did_ meet each other in passing even before that, didn’t we?” At that, she looked over at Anders, their faces splitting into twin smirks.

“Right. We met through that girl with all the griffon tattoos, wasn’t it? What was her name?”

“Damned if I know,” Isabela laughed. Looking back to Hawke, she added conversationally, “Anders was one of the people we were meeting up with tonight. I didn’t realize you two would already be such close friends.”

Perhaps it was due to the fact that Isabela had hit the word “friends” with just a shade too much emphasis, but Hawke could feel Fenris stiffen slightly beside her. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see his shoulders square and his fingers pressing in a little too hard on the sides of the plastic cup that he clutched tight in his grip.

Hawke cleared her throat delicately, her general discomfort having manifested itself as a lump in her throat. “Well, it’s nice to see you again, Anders,” she said politely, trying to convey an implication of finality in her tone.

Apparently, her tone had been too subtle, because Anders only smiled and said, “I’m glad I allowed Isabela to coerce me into coming out tonight. This is a much better way to spend a night than staying locked away in my apartment, drowning in legal documents.” Anders took a swig of his drink and, when he lowered it, he gestured from Hawke to Fenris with his cup. “But, I only just got here, so I haven’t gotten the chance to meet your boyfriend. Have you been together long?”

Anders let out a pained yelp as the heel of Isabela’s boot came crashing down on the arch of his foot. The moment that it took for him to shoot Isabela a betrayed look, and for her to level him with a warning glare, allowed Hawke just barely enough time to mask the awkwardness she felt at having to respond to that question.

“Oh shit, that was really rude of me,” she said, because it had been. Hawke had been too taken aback by Anders’ sudden reappearance to give any real thought to making introductions, but that wasn’t a very good excuse for being inconsiderate. “Anders, this is Fenris,” she said, moving in just a little closer to Fenris’ side as she spoke. “I asked him to come out with Isabela and me tonight. Fenris, this is Anders. Isabela’s friend.”

Hawke did her best to keep the introductions light and perfunctory, breezing past the unfortunate use of the term “boyfriend” entirely. It was not exactly a label that could be accurately applied to a person during a first date, but she hadn’t wanted to dwell on that point.

“Fenris,” parroted Anders with a nod. “It’s nice to meet you.” He extended his hand, which Fenris accepted.

“Likewise,” Fenris replied, clasping Anders’ hand through two firm shakes before releasing it.

“So, what do you two make of the show?” Anders asked, gesturing towards the gallery broadly. “Have you gotten a chance to look around, yet?”

Hawke nodded. “Isabela and I walked around some when we first got here. The work is very… provocative.”

“That does seem to be the word for it,” agreed Fenris, primarily addressing Hawke. She was glad to see that he had relaxed considerably since the initial revelation of her former acquaintance with Anders had passed. His mouth was quirked to the side as he looked at her and Hawke suspected that he was in the midst of recalling the absurdly graphic portrait of an anus that they’d happened upon earlier. She exhaled through her nose, grinning at the memory.

“I _did_ like the pierced nipple,” Isabela mused. “I might be compelled to break-in later and liberate it. Hang it over my bed, where it can really be appreciated.”

“If you need help, I’d be happy to lend a hand,” offered Hawke. “I can be awfully stealthy when I want to be.”

“I don’t doubt it, sweet thing,” said Isabela generously, “but I saw the way you were eyeing that photo, and I refuse to go 50/50 on that loot, so I’m afraid you’re out.”

“Make me a print and we’ll call it square,” Hawke shrugged.

“Hm, I like that idea. Alright, sweetness, you’re back in the heist.”

“I find myself dreading the inevitable moment when I’ll be asked to testify against you both,” Fenris said, shaking his head regretfully.

Hawke stared at him, her mouth agape with mock horror. “I am shocked and deeply hurt that you wouldn’t even consider lying for us.”

“I could be persuaded,” Fenris drawled, with a sideways glance at Hawke.

Hawke’s face lit with an irrepressible smile. “Oh, really?”

“I’m not without mercy,” Fenris said, utterly straight-faced.

Hawke tried to fight back a laugh, hoping that she’d be able to find some clever thing to say that would prolong the subtle flirtation of their exchange, but the laughter still shook her shoulders, even as she pressed her lips together to suppress the sound. Fenris looked pleased with himself.

“I can’t wait to watch you perjure yourself in front of an entire courtroom,” Isabela purred, eyeing Fenris with a look that was just shy of a leer.

He arched an eyebrow at her. “Oh, are you _planning_ to get caught, now?”

“You’re Tevinter, aren’t you?” Anders interjected abruptly. Fenris’ eyes flicked immediately over to him, his brow furrowing at the suddenness of the question. Anders chuckled to himself, explaining, “Sorry, I was trying to place your accent earlier and it just came to me.”

Fenris’ brow smoothed and he nodded once in polite acknowledgement. “I am, though it’s generally difficult for people to determine. I was raised in Tevinter, but I’ve been in the Free Marches for some time now and my accent has altered.”

“And you are Arlathan, right?” Anders observed, perhaps encouraged by the success of the first question. He clearly had no concept of just how unwelcome such a remark would be.

Fenris’ expression hardened instantaneously, a muscle at the corner of his jaw tightening. “I am,” he said, flatly.

Anders expression was filled with sympathy as he said, “I can’t imagine how horrible it must have been, coming of age in Tevinter, with the way they treat your people.” The muscle in Fenris’ jaw twitched again, though Anders remained unaware of it. “The fact that that kind of injustice persists within Thedas without widespread, international outcry is a travesty. I’m sure you would know far better than I, but I was just reading an interview with the younger Senator Pavus about the ongoing—”

“I wouldn’t know,” Fenris interrupted, speaking blandly, as though he were incredibly bored by the subject. Anders’ eyes widened before narrowing sharply, the thin lines of his eyebrows coming together as he stared at Fenris. “I haven’t concerned myself with Tevinter’s many problems since I left it.”

“I would think,” said Anders tightly, “that, during a transitional time, when every voice of dissent needs to be heard, that you might take some interest in the political atrocities that directly impact your own country, your own _people_.” It was clear that Anders was attempting to remain civil, but, with each passing word, more indignation seeped into his tone, until he was practically spitting out his final words.

“I don’t,” Fenris said, his voice, impossibly, even more flat than before.

Anders made an exasperated noise in the back of his throat, staring at Fenris in disbelief before turning his shocked gaze to Hawke, lifting his eyebrows at her expectantly, as though he thought she might jump on the chance to condemn Fenris and cast him off.

Hawke sighed heavily. The difficulty of the situation, as she saw it, was that both Anders and Fenris had chosen the exact same moment to behave like jackasses.

Anders, oblivious to the degree of Fenris’ distaste for Tevinter, had kept pressing until he’d driven Fenris to his breaking point. Worsening matters further, he had then made the regrettable decision to offer Fenris instruction on how he ought to experience his own Arlathan identity. Fenris, for his part, had chosen to be deliberately petulant with a well-intentioned person who clearly felt very strongly about social injustices.

Hawke was, admittedly, predisposed to taking Fenris’ side, but his struck her as the more pardonable error. It wasn’t as though she never became irritated with people who prodded at issues that she obviously didn’t want to discuss.

She reached out and lightly took Fenris’ hand into her own. He started at the first touch, but soon eased into it, tangling their fingers together.

“I just remembered, there’s a photograph inside that I’ve been meaning to show Fenris,” Hawke said, blatantly lying. “There was that really nice ass in the far corner, right, Isabela?”

Isabela nodded in instant, unquestioning agreement. “Fantastic ass,” she confirmed. “Very pert. Lovely dimples.”

“Great,” said Hawke, her hand tightening around Fenris’. “We’d better go inside and check it out before we drink too much to appreciate the artistry.” With an apologetic look to Anders, and a grateful smile to Isabela, she added, “I’ll see you guys later.”

Hawke turned to go, her hand still tightly interlocked with Fenris’, though he followed after her with no resistance. He was probably as eager to make their exit as she was.

They hadn’t gotten more than a few paces away, however, before Anders called, “You still have my number, don’t you? We should catch up.”

Hawke looked back over her shoulder in time to see Isabela roll her eyes dramatically, letting out a heavy sigh that sounded suspiciously like, “ _Boys_.”

“I’m sure it’s still saved in my phone somewhere,” Hawke replied, because it probably was.

“Good,” said Anders, nodding resolutely. “I have yours saved, as well. We’ll be in touch soon, I hope.”

“I hope so, too,” said Hawke, flashing a brief smile before turning away once more and leading Fenris off towards the doors as swiftly as possible.

They were barely inside when Fenris took control of their direction, guiding Hawke away from the dense crowd that was milling around the doorway and bringing them to a stop near a more sparsely populated part of the room. Exhaling shakily, he turned to look at her and said, with an earnestness that she hadn’t expected, “I’m sorry.” Fenris maintained eye contact for only a moment longer before he looked down towards the floor, shaking his head. “I don’t have fond memories of Tevinter, but that’s no excuse for my behavior. I should not have been rude to your friend.”

Hawke stared at him, at his bowed head and his tensed shoulders. Reassuringly, Hawke squeezed his hand, which brought his eyes flicking back upwards to meet with hers, his expression full of wary hopefulness. “It’s alright, Fenris,” she told him, smiling gently. “It’s not like I don’t get where you were coming from. I don’t love the aggressive, male posturing, but he _was_ pressing. It’s okay. I’m kind of an asshole, too.”

Fenris huffed out a surprised laugh. “Is that so?”

“Mm hm,” she confirmed brightly, with a crisp nod. “I was glad to have an excuse to leave, anyway. I don’t know if you picked up on the incredibly obvious awkwardness back there, but I went home with that guy, like, three years ago, and it was awful.” Hawke wasn’t exactly eager to share, but it seemed like something Fenris should know before he leapt to any incorrect conclusions about her history with Anders. “I started freaking out the second we walked through his front door. Nothing kills the mood quite like a complete emotional breakdown and a sudden, acute aversion to physical contact.”

It was an embarrassing revelation, but Fenris smiled like it wasn’t. “I can imagine,” he said, his voice low and wry.

Hawke smiled ruefully, chuckling softly. “This was a stupid idea, wasn’t it? We should have gone somewhere where we could actually have a private conversation for longer than five minutes. I was just… I didn’t want to wait another week before we actually got to spend any time together.”

Fenris looked at her thoughtfully, head tilted to the side and mouth curving into a crooked smile. “I did notice,” he began, “that the sculpture gardens looked remarkably peaceful from where we were standing. We might go there, if you like. Have a conversation.”

Hawke was nodding before Fenris had even finished speaking, grinning so widely that she worried her cheeks might actually cramp up. “Yes,” she said, trying to remain as composed as possible. “Yes, let’s do that.” Her grin wasn’t going anywhere, she realized, and there was no way for her to conceal her eagerness.

Fenris didn’t seem to mind. “Good,” said Fenris, offering his arm to Hawke. “Now, with any luck, Sera will refrain from throwing too many cherries as us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I don’t know if sage tea is actually to use on black eyes (never had one), so don’t go trying it yourself. But sage is supposed to help with bruises, so meh.  
> 2) Boys needling each other. I don’t mean to be too hard on poor Anders. I’ll be more generous in future chapters.  
> 3) Sorry again for the delay; work is a time-suck. I’m working on Part 2 literally right now, so it should be both short and forthcoming.


	9. Then Three's a Crowd (Part II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning(s): Alcohol consumption. Smoking (cigarettes). Underage smooching (consensual). Discussion of canonical character death(s)/murder. Slight implication of past child abuse. Let me know if there’s something I should add.

Hawke had been twelve years old when she’d had her first kiss on a class fieldtrip to the historic Governor’s Manor, about a forty-five minute bus ride north of Lothering. She remembered the entire day very clearly, from the oatmeal her mother had made for breakfast to the sound of her father’s choked sobs and panicked breaths coming from the second-floor bathroom, where he’d thought they couldn’t hear him. She had been numbly upset, but well-fed, when she had handed her permission slip over to her homeroom teacher and gotten onto the chartered bus with the rest of her class.

Hawke remembered that she’d wanted to cry, so she hadn’t sat next to her friends, because they would have been able to tell. Or rather, she’d feared they would be able to tell. In reality, she had probably already formed the skills required to keep her face blank and her friends, being very young, probably wouldn’t have suspected her of concealing anything. But Hawke had been worried that they might guess something was wrong at home, so she’d sat near the front of the bus with a boy she didn’t know very well. She hadn’t paid enough attention to him before to have developed a crush, but they had sat next to each other in health class and she’d noticed that he always had clean, neatly-trimmed fingernails. She had suspected that his parents took very good care of him.

When they’d gotten to the Governor’s Manor, she and the boy had been named fieldtrip buddies by virtue of the fact that they were seated together. They’d followed their guide through the ornate rooms, with bright walls and beds built right into the walls and shrouded with curtains, and then, when they’d been guided into the gardens, they’d been set loose with the rest of the students.

The gardens had been beautiful, Hawke remembered. Crushed shells formed straight paths between the square plots of manicured plant life, where dense bushes had been trimmed into ornate topiaries and stood guarded by low walls and precise, whitewashed brickwork. Everything was deliberate, carefully placed. Hawke had loved it, walking reverently along the shell paths that crunched and crackled beneath her shoes. The boy had walked along with her, offering short shreds of conversation about their recently discovered common interest, which was algebra. She had laughed a lot, though the hilarity of math puns had faded for Hawke in subsequent years.

She and the boy had reached the far, west-facing wall of the garden, where none of the other children seemed to have reached yet. The wall was too tall to be looked over, but there was a large tree of indeterminate type growing alongside it. Hawke didn’t know if the tree predated the wall, or if the wall had been altered to accommodate its growth, but there was a large, circular hole built into the wall through which grew one of the tree’s lowermost boughs. Standing on her toes, Hawke had peered through the hole, looking out onto the riverbank that ran past the rear of the estate. Eager to see what she was looking at, the boy had come to stand beside her, also rising up onto his toes.

What Hawke remembered most about her first kiss was not the kiss itself, which had only been okay, but the moments just preceding it, which had been extraordinary.

She remembered that she had been standing close enough to the boy to hear his gasp of breath when he caught sight of green fields sloping down to blue water and gray river stones. She remembered looking over at him, for the pleasure of watching someone experiencing something beautiful. He’d looked back at her and she had known then, in that moment, that he would kiss her. His eyes had dropped to her mouth, lifted back to her eyes, and he had swallowed hard, his tongue darting out over his lips.

Her pulse had quickened, her blood suddenly warm at the surface of her skin and she had felt the cool air settling over her, the sensation of it suddenly so real. She had felt all the places where she made contact with things in the world that were not her. She was not the cool air on her skin, or the clothes on her shoulders, or the ground beneath her feet. She was herself, her own entity, and someone was seeing her. Really seeing her.

In the place exactly at the lowest point of her ribcage, she felt her breaths rushing into her body. She had felt each breath washing over something bright and expanding and intangible inside of her. _Yes, I am myself_ , sighed that vital, invisible part of her. _Yes, I am alive. Yes, I feel, I want, I live. Yes._

It was like racing fast until her legs ached, holding her breath inside burning lungs at the bottom of a lake and staring up at glittering sunlight, the feeling of wind whipping her hair into a cloud around her face, the first cold drops of rain on overheated summer skin.

Every second she spent with Fenris was like being in that moment all over again. And he wasn’t even about to kiss her. At least, she was pretty sure he wasn’t. Not yet, anyway.

They were walking through a garden that wasn’t so different, really, from the one that Hawke had visited at age twelve. The paths were paved with mossy flagstones instead of shells, and the plots of greenery weren’t trimmed back with quite the same attention to detail, but everything felt as though it had been placed there with intention. Nothing was accidental, even the chaotic twists of vines that spilled out onto the stone paths.

The sculptures placed throughout the courtyard, each illuminated by a dim light beaming upwards, had clearly been chosen to remain as permanent installations there, unlike the pieces hanging inside the gallery. Many of them bore signs of exposure to the elements, darkened with trails from years of rainfall or weathered to a pale green verdigris.

Very few of the people who were in the gardens just then were paying much attention to the statuary. The careful design of the garden had allowed for a number of secluded retreats from the main pathways—stone benches made safe from prying eyes by overgrown shrubbery, alcoves built into the walls and shrouded by cascading veils of ivy, sulky trees with branches that drooped down low enough to perfectly conceal the soft ground over their roots. Intermittently, the muffled laughter and hushed murmurs of private conversation made the presence of hidden couples known, but it was easy enough for Hawke to forget their existence as she and Fenris meandered along the flagstones together.

They had both disposed of their hastily drained wine cups before moving outside, which left Hawke empty-handed and not entirely sure of what to do with that newfound freedom. After leaving the gallery exhibit arm-in-arm, which had actually proved supremely helpful when the time came for Hawke to descend several flights of stairs while wearing extremely impractical footwear, she and Fenris had parted by necessity beside the exit in order to chug their drinks and abandon the remains in the nearest trash receptacle.

Hawke couldn’t help feeling a little bereft now that that contact was broken, but, at a loss as to how to reestablish their former proximity, she contented herself with ambling along just a little apart from Fenris, close enough that she could have reached out to take his hand, if only she could summon the nerve.

Unlike Hawke, Fenris didn’t seem to struggle long over what to do with his hands. He’d asked, after they’d passed by three or four sculptures together, if she minded him lighting a cigarette. Hawke wasn’t sure that it was legal to smoke in a public venue, even if they were technically outside, but she didn’t mind one way or the other, and communicated as much to Fenris.

He paused a moment as he withdrew a lighter and a battered pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. In a practiced movement, the calloused pad of his thumb dragged over the metal sparkwheel, bringing a flame bursting into life as he leaned in closer, a cigarette held loosely between his lips. As the warm light of the swaying flame danced over his features, Fenris inhaled slowly, the glowing ember on the tip of his cigarette reacting to his breath with a flare of ruddy flame.

A little entranced, Hawke watched the way the pale, almost blue smoke made Fenris’ breath visible. She imagined what it might be like to move in close to him, to catch his exhalations against her own lips, to feel his warm breath against her skin, to taste the smoke on his tongue. The potential for such actions seemed more real, then, than it had at any other point in the night.

They were alone in a way that they had not been previously, together in the imagined privacy of the garden. There, with no real chance of interruption, delicate moments might be allowed to stretch on unbroken.

She smiled to herself, letting out a soft, contented hum as she moved a few paces along the path, coming to stand beneath twin sculptures of towering birds, their wings at rest and their heads alert, like enormous gargoyles keeping watch. Their patina, and the hint of moss that grew along the furrows in their wings, made them nearly the same color as the patch of low, lush groundcover from which they rose. It was like they had grown there themselves, breaking through the soil and stretching skyward from amongst the green vines that surrounded them.

As Hawke gazed upwards at the birds, Fenris drifted on a little past where she stood, stopping a few yards away to read a placard that was mounted beneath one of the larger sculptures that they had come across thus far. Upon reading its name, he let out a mirthless snort of laughter, sending smoke streaming from his flared nostrils as he stared up at the artfully-rendered face of the statue that loomed over him.

It was a beautiful monstrosity. An excessively large, skillful representation of a gaunt man, a body of skin and bone, with his head bowed and his limbs burdened with thick chains.

“That’s grim,” remarked Hawke, drawing up alongside Fenris as she took in the statue’s hunched shoulders, the hollowness of its empty eyes, the straight bridge of an Arlathan nose.

“ _Servani Aeturnum_ ,” said Fenris, reciting the name inscribed on the placard. He exhaled another burst of laughter through his nose, his lips curling to one side. “What do you suppose the chances are that the artist was Tevinter?”

“Why would they put that _here_?” She didn’t know whether she was more put off by the existence of the sculpture itself, or by the hypocrisy of its existence in a place called the Free Marches.

Fenris shrugged, his voice touched with only the barest trace of bitterness as he said simply, “It is only a myth to some, I’m sure, regardless of what the symbol has come to mean in other circles. No doubt there are those who find it a charming relic of the past, a tribute to Kirkwall’s rich history. It matters little, I’d expect, that said history was not always a proud one, nor that its legacy continues to effect the lives of many.” His expression was thoughtful, his eyes pensive as they dropped down to the nameplate once more, lingering on the words there.

Admittedly, Hawke didn’t know much about Fenris, after what little time they’d spent together, but she did know that he had lied to Anders. Regardless of what he may have said to the contrary, it was clear—endlessly clear—that Fenris still cared deeply about Tevinter. Whatever his experience there had been, it obviously continued to weigh on him. She had known that much from the first night they’d met, from the first time that his expression had darkened at the mention of his homeland.

Hawke watched him carefully, wishing that she could offer some form of comfort, but fully aware that any attempt to do so would not be appreciated. Hawke might not have known much about Fenris, but she was learning. And she had learned that he didn’t want pity, from her or from anyone.

“It’s a shitty sculpture,” she declared matter-of-factly, eyes scanning over it. “All out of proportion. Look at that gigantic head. He’d tip right over, shambling along on those teeny, tiny legs.” When Fenris turned his gaze to her, Hawke held out one of her hands in a flat plane and, with the other, illustrated a slouching, ungainly stride, with her index and middle fingers serving as wavering, overburdened legs.

Fenris watched the pantomime with a broadening smile. “I didn’t realize you had such a keen eye for art,” he said easily, following after Hawke as she started off along the path towards other, less objectionable pieces of art.

“Oh, it’s always been a passion of mine,” she drawled, grinning back at him over her shoulder. “Only as a critic, of course. I’m remarkably untalented when it comes to the visual arts.”

“Hm. You’re speaking from experience, I take it?”

“Horrible, humiliating experience, yes,” Hawke said gravely. “We all had to take ceramics in school and I was easily the worst in my year,” she explained as Fenris, after a few lengthened strides, caught up to her. “My friend, Allison, was incredible, though. While I was struggling to make a passable ashtray, she was already sculpting these amazingly intricate pieces that were actually just….”

Hawke stopped herself midsentence, suddenly struck by the realization that she’d started off on an anecdote that wasn’t entirely appropriate for a first date. She’d fallen so out of the habit of relating stories from her school days that she had quite overlooked some of the finer details, like the fact that the objects Allison had been crafting so lovingly in art class had actually been cleverly-disguised dildos. And it was probably a little early to start talking to Fenris about dildos. Or any sex toy, for that matter.

But he was arching his brow at her expectantly, prompting her to go on, and there was really nothing to do but plunge onwards, though her cheeks warmed as she did so. “Well, they were all discretely phallic-shaped, let’s say,” Hawke continued, waving her hand vaguely. “She would sell them to the other girls for, um, personal use. The glaze was probably ridiculously toxic, and it couldn’t have been sanitary, but she still made a clear two-hundred dollar profit by the end of the semester.”

When Fenris laughed—softly, but with genuine warmth—Hawke could have melted with relief. She was learning, much to her delight, that Fenris laughed far more readily than his outward appearance might suggest. His amusement wasn’t always very vocal and it wasn’t always obvious, but even the smallest quirk of his lips felt like a victory to Hawke.

His eyes were bright, his voice lightly teasing, as he said, “You certainly seem to know a lot about the business.”

She grinned. “Yes, I suppose I do. But only ever as an interested observer. Aside from the glaring hygiene concerns, I have a very nosy younger brother. I never would have gotten away with having anything even mildly incriminating in my room, no matter how well-hidden.”

“This is the brother with the dog tattoo, yes?”

“Did I tell you that?” Hawke said, not bothering to disguise the pleasure in her voice. It was impossible not to feel a little gratified that Fenris remembered an extraneous detail about her life that she barely remembered sharing with him. Fenris tilted his head, his shoulders lifting once as he owned it unabashedly. Hawke knew she was beaming at him when she said, “Good memory. Yes, that’s Carver.”

They were nearing the tall, ivy-covered wall at the edge of the sculpture garden, where the path curved back in the direction of the gallery. They’d been maintaining a fairly leisurely pace for some time, neither of them in any particular hurry to return indoors and, as they approached the upcoming turn, they came to a stop entirely. They lingered there, beneath the outstretched boughs of an expansive yew tree. There was an unoccupied bench at the base of the tree, partially obscured by low-hanging branches, and, without either of them really leading the way, Hawke and Fenris began to drift towards it.

“So, do you have any siblings?” Hawke asked, brushing fallen needles off the top of the bench with quick sweeps of her hand.

Fenris nodded, taking a slow drag off his cigarette as he bent forward to aid Hawke in clearing the debris. “I do,” he said, smoke trailing past his lips along with the words. “A younger sister, Varania.” There was, Hawke noticed, an unmistakable note of fondness in his voice when he said his sister’s name.

“Are you two close?” she asked, smoothing her hands over the back of her dress as she took a seat on the bench. Though it was a warm night, she still had to fight back a hiss of discomfort at the sensation of cool stone pressing against her bare skin. The short, leather dress that Charade had talked her into squeezing into that night rode far up her thighs as she sat, leaving a frankly indecent portion of her backside naked against the bench. Shifting a little self-consciously, Hawke crossed one leg over the other.

Fenris sat down close beside her, near enough that his leg brushed against her knee. It was startling, almost, to feel his warmth bleeding through the surprisingly soft fabric of his pants, hot against her skin. Hawke’s eyes dropped down furtively, to the slight spread of his legs and to the place where his body came into contact with her own.

Perhaps Fenris was as painfully aware of their proximity as she was, because, when he spoke again, there was a noticeable roughness to his voice. “It’s been difficult to correspond with her since I left for the Free Marches.” He cleared his throat once, raggedly, and tapped his cigarette on the edge of the bench, sending a long pile of pale gray ash tumbling down to the ground at his feet. “We were never close to begin with,” he added, shaking his head. “Varania was away at school through most of our adolescence and she generally passed summers at one camp or another. Now, we’re grown and generally absorbed in other things.” He shrugged with casual acceptance of a regrettable inevitability.

Hawke nodded, knowing that form of resignation well. “What does she do back in Tevinter?”

“She’s a designer,” he told her, a distinct note of pride crossing his expression. “I believe she’s recently secured financing for her own line.”

Hawke wondered if Carver had ever spoken of her with even half the affection she could hear in Fenris’ voice when he talked about his sister. She doubted it. “That’s impressive,” said Hawke, smiling. “Is she good?”

“I’ve never had much of an eye for fashion, I’m afraid,” said Fenris, his lips lifting at one corner in a faint smile. “But she’s ambitious, and beginning to make a name for herself in Tevinter, at least.”

“That must have been nice while you were growing up. To have a sister who was also creative,” remarked Hawke, trying to readjust the hem of her skirt with minute tugs that she attempted to keep inconspicuous. If Fenris’ lowered gaze was any indication, she was not successful. He didn’t stare overlong, however—his eyes tracking once down the line of her exposed thigh before returning resolutely to meet her gaze.

“Am I creative?” he said, just to be difficult.

Hawke huffed out a laugh. “You _are_ a writer.”

“Ah yes, that,” he said, taking a deep drag from his cigarette that pulled the smoldering tip down until it nearly met with the filter. “Perhaps Varania and I have more in common than I previously realized.” He let the cigarette fall from his fingers, crushing it beneath the toe of his shoe before he reached into his pocket and fished out another. “And your brother?” he asked, flicking open his lighter. “What does he do?”

“Well, he’s quite a bit younger than I am, so he only finished with school a few years ago,” she began, bracing one of her hands on the bench as she leaned slightly to the side, shifting her torso away from Fenris at the same time that it pressed her leg tighter into him. “He enlisted in the army straight away and now he’s off at OCS, which seems like a good fit for him.” She lifted one of her shoulders and sighed softly. “Carver always rebelled in the strangest ways. Our family was never very structured, so now he seeks that out wherever he can.”

“Do you speak with him often? I’d imagine it’s a fairly demanding program.”

“It is. He’s generally exhausted or too busy to chat, which I understand.” Hawke shrugged, giving a little nod of concession as she added, “And, honestly, we never really talked much, even when we were living under the same roof. I wish it were different, but it’s a little late to change now, even though we’re all that’s left.”

She hadn’t meant to reveal so much, really, but the last admission had just flowed from her tongue, almost without her involvement. Fenris, however, didn’t seem uncomfortable with the revelation of intimate familial details. Rather, he only nodded, looking at her solemnly. “Your parents?” he asked, his voice hushed.

Hawke shook her head, smiling a little sadly as she said, in equally soft tones, “It’s been a while. My father died just after I graduated from prep school, and my little sister passed six months later.” Hawke felt her throat thickening at the mention of Bethany, but she ignored the sensation, continuing unwaveringly, “My mother went a few years ago, so it’s just Carver and me now.”

Fenris said nothing. He asked no questions, offered no cheap words of sympathy. He only inclined his head once in a simple nod, his gaze steadily holding hers. Perhaps it was that—his silent acceptance of what she said as fact instead of an invitation to prod further or a titillating curiosity to pursue—which made her continue.

“That’s why I moved, actually,” she admitted quietly, her eyes dropping down to where her own hand tightened against her knee. “My mom’s death was all over the news, every detail of it. People kept coming up to me—saying they were sorry, bringing me food, or just… staring.” Her teeth raked harshly over her lower lip, pressing a tidy row of indentations into it before she continued, after a harsh exhalation, “I’d like to say that at least they meant well, but I’m not sure that’s even true. I think… I think some of them just wanted to brush up against something tragic. Like being close to me would remind them to be grateful for what they had, what they hadn’t lost. And I just got so tired of being a reminder. It got exhausting, really. Pretending like their condolences meant anything.”

It was the cruelest thought she’d ever had about anyone. That none of the kind, probably well-intentioned people who’d pressed into her life at that time had meant any of the kind, probably well-intentioned words that had come from their mouths. That none of their furrowed brows, gentle frowns, and contorted expressions were genuine. That anything they said or did was without meaning, because they couldn’t know how she felt. Because they hadn’t lost what she’d lost.

She had felt like a monster, even then, for feeling so little gratitude for the compassion offered to her. She had never admitted to those thoughts, that level of callousness, to anyone. Not to Charade, not to Carver. And now, in a moment of ill-advised openness, she’d gone and spilled it all to Fenris. When she lifted her head to look back at him, Hawke was sure that he’d be looking at her with deep revulsion.

But, he wasn’t. It was the oddest thing; she’d told him the most disgusting thoughts that had ever crossed her mind, and he was staring at her with open fascination. Like she was something he’d like to study further, to see more of. Like she was extraordinary. Her breath caught.

The garden wasn’t quiet, and they weren’t really alone, but it felt that way. The music and laughter that poured down from the balcony faded away, drowned out by the murmur of tree branches rustling. The roar of cars in the street, just past the garden wall, went silent. Hawke forgot that there were other couples, other people, hidden throughout the garden just as she and Fenris were hidden. They were alone together, and she smiled at him.

“They say that death is only a journey,” he said at last, his lips curving upwards wryly, though his eyes remained gentle. “People were always telling me that after my mother died,” he added, his voice colored with dry amusement.

Hawke laughed softly, shaking her head as her smile broadened. “That doesn’t sound like it would be very helpful.”

“It wasn’t,” he said, shrugging. “But then, such platitudes seldom are. To be honest, I’ve never much seen the point in filling the space left by a person with empty talk.” Fenris looked at her, composed and sincere, as he added simply, “Though, for what little it may be worth, I am sorry about your family.”

“I’m sorry about yours,” replied Hawke evenly, returning his straightforward gaze.

“It was a long time ago for me, as well,” he told her, though they both knew how little difference that made. “I was twelve when my mother passed and, mercifully, it was quick. Very little time spent waiting around.”

Hawke swore under her breath, uttering a curse creative enough to draw another rumbling chuckle from Fenris. “I can’t imagine what it must have been like to lose your mother at that age,” she said. “I don’t know what my father would have done if he’d had to raise us on his own.”

Fenris’ lips twisted sideways, his smile taking on a darker aspect. “I’m not sure what my father would have done, either. He left just before my sister was born."

“Asshole.”

“Indeed.”

“So, did you stay with relatives, then?” she asked, unable to stop herself. It was a sickening thought, imagining Fenris as a child, with a younger sister depending on him and no one else to care for either of them. She wanted desperately to believe there had been someone there for them, but Fenris shook his head.

“My mother was a caretaker on a Senator’s estate for several years prior to her death,” he said, his thumb absently rubbing up and down the side of his cigarette as he spoke. “He fostered us afterwards. Paid for our education, our clothing, our food. He just generally… paid for us.” He spoke smoothly, seemingly detached as he lifted his cigarette to his mouth, his tongue darting over his lower lip before he gently took a pull off the yellowed filter. Hawke watched the elegant lines of his profile as he turned to look out over the gardens, smoke spilling from his nostrils in a cascade over his parted lips. He held the cigarette against his mouth, breathing it in again as his eyes drifted to the simple black watch at his wrist.

Turning his arm to take a closer look at the time, Fenris sighed out a cloud of white smoke. “It’s late,” he said, casting a rueful look in Hawke’s direction. “I hate to leave, especially given the somewhat maudlin tenor of our current conversation, but, my flight departs at six tomorrow, so I believe I should….” He trailed off, inclining his head in the direction of the gallery. The “leave” was implicit.

Hawke felt something cold unfurling in the pit of her stomach. “Oh?” she said, not quite succeeding at keeping a shadow of disappointment from flickering over her expression. Fenris was right: an extended discussion of death and personal loss was undoubtedly a sour note on which to conclude their night together. With their first date ending like that, it was hard to believe that she’d get a chance at a second.

But Fenris looked genuinely contrite as he said, “Perhaps it was poor judgment to arrange this on the night before an early flight. Impatience got the better of me, I’m afraid. I am sorry to have to cut the evening short.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Hawke said, shaking her head. “I didn’t want to wait until you got back, either. And besides, it was fun while it lasted. For me, anyway.”

Fenris did his best to conceal a shy smile, but Hawke still caught a glimpse of it before he bowed his head. “For me, as well,” he told her. When he lifted his eyes to hers, his smile had transformed into something hopeful and promisingly brazen. “When next we see one another, I’ll allot more time to spend together.”

“There’s going to be a next time, then?” grinned Hawke, reveling in the light, fluttering sensation of joy that swelled up as her self-doubt gave way.

“If you’d like there to be,” Fenris said, smiling crookedly as he rose from the bench and offered his hand to her.

Hawke nodded once, pressing her teeth down on her lip to prevent her smile from widening to the point of clownishness. “I’d like that a lot,” she said, placing her hand lightly in Fenris’ and allowing him to help her stand upright. She didn’t release his hand, even when she was solidly on her feet.

“Good,” he said, making no effort to extricate his hand from her loose grasp as they began back in the direction of the gallery.

It was a far more efficient walk than the meandering stroll that they had taken through the garden earlier, but Fenris retained his hold on Hawke’s hand through the entirety of it, so she couldn’t say for sure which she’d preferred.

The gallery foyer was buzzing softly with the indistinct conversations of the people milling about there and the click of shoes trotting up and down the staircase, coming and going from the show above. It wasn’t an easy trick to weave through the scattered congregations of people who had been imbibing a little too enthusiastically that night, but Hawke and Fenris managed to make it to the wide, glass doors at the front entrance without incident or finding a need to disjoin their hands. Hawke was a little proud of that feat.

It was almost disorienting, walking out into the noise and clamor of a Kirkwall night, after the time she’d spent with Fenris, tucked away together beneath the evergreen branches of a yew tree. Moving out onto the sidewalk, passing through the veil of cigarette smoke that hung about the doorway, felt like crossing into a different world altogether. The bright lights of the city had never seemed so glaring, nor the rush of cars through the streets so deafening. She blinked rapidly, adjusting to the blue-tinged LED streetlamps that shone down with considerably too much enthusiasm.

There were even more people out than there had been at the comparatively early hour that Hawke and Isabela had arrived, but Fenris didn’t have any trouble hailing a cab, lamentably letting go of Hawke’s hand to do so. The streets were saturated with yellow cabs, though most of the people in them were probably starting their nights as opposed to ending them.

As the car pulled in along the red-painted curb in front of a fire hydrant, Fenris leaned in close to the open window and rattled off an address to the driver, who nodded, inputting it into his navigation system as he confirmed, “Up the hill?”

“That’s right,” Fenris nodded. He leaned in a little closer to the cab, his hand curling lightly over the edge of the open window as he asked easily, “Would you wait a moment while we say our goodbyes?” A slight nod of his head drew the driver’s attention to Hawke, who had remained a few paces back from the car. She waved once, small and a little self-conscious, as the driver’s eyes dragged over her. He looked back at Fenris, nodding. “Feel free to start the meter,” Fenris said, straightening up as he turned back towards Hawke.

White teeth flashed between full lips as he smiled at her, boyish and open. “I’ll call you. We can arrange something for a night when neither of us have obligations the next morning.” He spoke confidently enough, though Hawke couldn’t help noticing the slight vulnerability in his lowered gaze and the way he shifted from one foot to the other.

“I’ll look forward to it,” she said warmly.

Fenris cleared his throat in a short, rumbling sound, his weight shifting again as he shuffled one foot forward a little and came to stand just a bit closer to her. It was an infinitesimal change, but it was the difference between polite goodbyes and something more intimate.

He didn’t reach for her, grabbing hold of her and pulling her in close. He didn’t do more than sway once in place, his eyes dropping down to her lips and holding there, but it set Hawke’s heart hammering.

They were very nearly of a height, she noticed, her heels putting them at almost exactly the same level. Near enough that she could watch, close-up, the rapid dilation of his pupils as she wet her lips together. Close enough that she wouldn’t have to strain upwards to find his mouth. She smiled.

It was like the feeling of Bethany’s ancient motorcycle flaring into life beneath her, the swooping sensation between falling and hitting the ground, the prickling sting of life coming back to cold fingertips in front of a crackling fire.

Every second spent with Fenris was like the moment just before a kiss, but this one was more so.

There was a charge to the air, the small divide between them becoming a palpable thing. Matching Fenris’ slight forward progress, Hawke slid the smooth, leather soles of her shoes over the rough cement in two almost imperceptible steps, coming decidedly into his space and making herself comfortable there.

Fenris’ breath shuddered, his gaze darting up from her mouth to meet with her eyes. There was hunger in his expression still, but there was something else also that Hawke couldn’t quite identify. When his eyes left hers, flicking quickly towards whatever lay past her left shoulder, Hawke glanced back to follow his eyeline.

At least a dozen twenty-somethings, gathered together in the lilac haze of cigarette smoke, stared blandly back at her. Smoking laws being what they were in Kirkwall, the small cluster had apparently banded together to loiter lackadaisically on the sidewalk without much to occupy their interest but the exploits of people leaving the gallery. Undoubtedly bored, and with nothing else to draw their attention, they kept their eyes fixed dispassionately on Hawke and Fenris, their stares apathetic but unwavering.

“I—” Fenris began roughly. When Hawke looked back at him, he cleared his throat and tried again, softly. “I—”.

When his words seemed to elude him again, Hawke shook her head, putting an end to the matter by wrapping her arms gently around him, her head resting against his shoulder. It took him a moment, it seemed, to register what was happening, but, when he did, his arms came up around her, pulling her tight against him.

Yes, she would have kissed him in the full light of the streetlamps, the entire city looking on if they wanted to. She would have done it, and she would have done it happily, but she hadn’t liked the hesitation on Fenris’ face, or the idea that he might have pushed himself to do something he wasn’t comfortable with for her benefit. If Fenris didn’t care for public displays of affection, she could work around that. In fact, most of the things she wanted to do to him would have been illegal in public, anyway.

It would be better, she realized, when they could be alone together. When it wouldn’t be some sloppy, half-drunk goodbye on the side of the road, with a small crowd looking on and a cab driver craning over to peer out his window with entirely too much interest.

And this was good, too. She could feel the warmth and solidity of Fenris’ body against her, firm and reassuring as he anchored her to him with the circle of his arms. Closing her eyes, she tilted her face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of soft scent of soap, skin, and fresh smoke. She sighed and felt him gasp in response, his embrace tightening just slightly before they released one another.

His pupils were still wide, his expression glazed, with the hesitation she’d seen there before now removed. Hawke smiled dazedly at him, still warm and pleased from the feeling of his arms around her.

“Thanks for coming out tonight,” Hawke said, low. “I had a nice time.”

“As did I.”

“Good.”

Fenris cleared his throat, coughing into his fist once. “Give my regards to Isabela, when you see her,” he said, a bit stiltedly, once he seemed prepared to speak again. “And… enjoy the remainder of your night.”

“I will,” she grinned . “Enjoy your trip.”

He smiled, wrenching open the door of the cab without really looking at it. “I’ll try,” he said, sliding into the backseat. “Goodnight, Hawke.”

“Goodnight,” she returned, just before Fenris pulled the door shut with a snap that set the rickety car shaking. He nodded through the glass, the corners of his lips lifting as the cab pealed away from the curb, thundering off to join the tangled weave of traffic that coursed down the busy street.

Hawke waved until she was sure Fenris’ cab had rounded the corner, lingering in the warm night air perhaps just a little longer than necessary before turning back towards the gallery.

Isabela would, undoubtedly, be expecting updates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Sorry to break this into two parts. I don’t always know when I’ll have the time to write, so I like to get sections posted whenever I get the chance. 
> 
> 2) This story officially has more subscribers than anything I’ve written so far, so thank you all for your interest and your patience. :) Also, as always, if you don’t have an AO3 account, but would like to know when new chapters are up, just leave a comment saying so. I’ll reply with a little alert when I update.


	10. Absence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning(s): Alcohol consumption.   
> This is another sort of half-chapter, so sorry that it’s kind of light on plot.

Isabela, Sera, and Anders all seemed to have opinions about the way Hawke’s date with Fenris had ended, which they expressed with varying degrees of tact. Anders conducted himself in the manner that was by far the most restrained. He merely nodded when Hawke rejoined the others inside the gallery, the corners of his precisely-shaped lips turning upwards in a smile that was wedged firmly between smug and relieved. He never mentioned Fenris at all—then, or for the remainder of the night—though he did say that he was glad Hawke had returned.

Isabela and Sera, both of whom had clearly been drinking extravagantly throughout the entirety of Hawke’s absence, welcomed her back with demonstrative enthusiasm, though Hawke did notice a flicker of surprise cross Isabela’s expression. Neither she nor Sera brought up Fenris in any particular detail, however, until they were all piled in the backseat of a cab, jostling against one another on their way to Undercity.

It was then, with their sides smashed together and their legs tangled gracelessly in an intricate weave, that Isabela lowered her voice in a very poor approximation of a whisper and began to inquire as to what exactly had gone on after Hawke and Fenris had disappeared together.

She had plenty of guesses, of course, which she offered against Hawke’s ear in gusts of humid, wine-sweet breath. All sorts of murmured suggestions of skirts shoved up and out of the way, of adventurous hands slipping between parted thighs, of frantic motion, bitten-back moans, and desperate hunger.

Every aspect of Isabela’s speculation was quite a bit filthier than what had actually occurred, and Hawke told her as much. Swaying along with every lurch of the cab, she let herself be flung into Isabela’s side as she revealed, in the same overloud whisper, that everything that had gone on between Fenris and herself had been remarkably chaste.

If their appalled gasps were anything to go by, the confession that she and Fenris had parted without so much as a peck on the lips was a detail far more shocking to Isabela and Sera than even the most lurid smut would have been.

Sera blew a loud, wet sound against the heel of her hand, and declared that that was the end of it then. People who were interested in bumping uglies did not say goodnight with a hug, apparently.

Obviously, that same thought had occurred to Hawke, but it was still rather discomfiting to hear it expressed by someone else.

Isabela was moderately more optimistic, though that optimism came on the heels of her firmly rebuking Hawke for being such an unbelievable idiot.

Anders, riding up front beside the driver, remained curiously silent on the subject.

Hawke, for her part, vacillated wildly between optimism and resigned dejection. Both were easy enough to ignore that night, with the thrashing bass of Undercity thudding through her bones and the scorching heat of tequila shots down her throat leaving her blissfully incapable of complex emotion. Left to her own devices for the remainder of the weekend, however, Hawke had perhaps too much time to dissect the evening, with particular attention paid to its close.

In one moment, she could believe quite contentedly that she would soon get another chance to kiss Fenris and that she’d be grateful then that their first had not been some hurried thing on the curb of a dirty street. But that certainty could disappear entirely in the next moment, replaced by self-doubt.

She allowed herself an entire day-and-a-half of indulgent introspection before settling into a state of reasonable equilibrium. It had taken work and careful breathing to achieve that state, but she’d gotten there. She’d gotten there. Hawke reminded herself repeatedly that Fenris had made a point of saying, in no uncertain terms, that he’d like to see her again. She reminded herself determinedly that he had said he would call her. Leaning relentlessly into optimism, she decided to take him at his word, though admittedly she didn’t take his words quite literally.

“I’ll call you” was just one of those things that people said at the end of a date. Probably because it sounded better than “I’ll text you”, or, “Expect a short message in your inbox within two to three business days.” After just one date, people generally seemed to opt for those modern, slightly more prosaic forms of communication rather than initiating an actual phone call.

It was an instinct Hawke understood well. It was infinitely less daunting to converse via quick, concise texts than it was to go through all the pulse-pounding, sweaty-palmed stress of actually calling someone up and attempting to speak extemporaneously. She remembered being distinctly pleased when texting had definitively replaced phone calls as the default means of communication. It had reached the point where it was a genuine surprise to hear her phone ring.

Which was why she startled so violently when her phone suddenly began to ring merrily, pulsing itself across the kitchen counter in jaunty little circles while she was in the midst of dismantling a head of romaine.

When the unwarranted burst of adrenaline that had gone spiking through her began to settle, Hawke glanced towards her phone without any particular expectation. Generally, the only calls she received were from alumni fundraising organizations or telemarketing scammers promising her free boats in exchange for all her personal information, so there wasn’t much to get excited about. It was such an anomaly to see an actual name on her caller ID, rather than the long string of digits that signaled an unknown caller, that it took Hawke a moment to actually process what she was seeing.

A name. That she recognized. On her phone.

Hawke hurled her knife a little recklessly onto the cutting board and lunged for her phone, leaving scraps of lettuce clinging to her screen as she swiped her fingers over it.

“Hello?” Her greeting came out like a question, high-pitched and reedy even to her own ears.

Hawke was answered with a blast of music against her eardrum. The crisp, exact strains of sharply electronic beats shot through her phone as clearly as if it were an earbud shoved deep into her ear canal.

She jerked back from the sound instinctively, just beginning to absorb the disappointment of a pocket-dial when she heard, “Hawke?” Fenris was speaking loudly, clearly aware of the volume of his surroundings. As she lifted the phone back to her ear, she heard him muttering softly, and clearly to himself, “ _Venhedis_ , every time it seems I’ve escaped it, that din starts up again.” He tried her name again, with a return to his slightly heightened volume. “Hawke?”

“Yes, hi, I’m here.”

Fenris sighed, a sound of mingling relief and barely repressed frustration. “Ah, there you are,” he said above the thrum of the continuing music. “I’m sorry to have called you from amidst this… this _racket_. I thought it had let up at last, but it seems I was not so fortunate.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” she rushed to assure him. “Where are you?”

Fenris made a noise that might well have been the beginning of a word, but he was apparently interrupted by some commotion on his end. There was a rustling sound, the soft crackle of the phone readjusting against Fenris’ ear, and a slurred exclamation from someone whose voice Hawke didn’t recognize. “Fuck, I know you!” shouted the voice, close enough to the receiver that Hawke knew the speaker must have slipped well into Fenris’ space. “Fucking awesome shit, man,” said the voice, thrilled and oblivious. “Fucking awesome.”

Fenris’ voice was brittle and iced over as he said, “Yes, thank you. Deeply flattered.” There was the sound of rustling again and the fading sound of drunken, blurry babbling from Fenris’ admirer. Hawke heard Fenris breathing out his irritation in a long exhalation. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its hard edges. “Pardon, I didn’t quite catch what you said.”

“Me?”

“You.”

“Oh, I just asked where you were.” Hawke brushed an errant strand of hair behind her ear as she spoke and it immediately sprang free once more. She repeated the gesture again, with similar success.

“The Leyford Party,” he told her, his voice elevated over the sound of the bass dropping loudly and with great enthusiasm. “Evidently, it was of vital importance that I attend.”

“Leyford?” Hawke shifted, turning away from the countertop and leaning back against it, the hard ridge of its edge pressing into her hips. “The clothing company?”

“An excuse to advertise while minor celebrities clamor to have their photos taken. You can imagine how delighted I am to be tasked with documenting the affair.” There was an abrupt dampening of the sound against Hawke’s ear, as though the music were being filtered to her through a tangled mass of cotton. “There we are,” said Fenris, his voice clear and soft. “I ought to be able to hear you now.”

Absent the obtrusive ambient sound continually pulsing in the background, their conversation suddenly seemed more intimate. Hawke felt too aware of Fenris’ lowered voice, honeyed and gentle and just for her now that the crowd was stripped away. “Yeah?” she said, her tongue feeling altogether too thick for her mouth.

“I’ve locked myself in the men’s room.”

“Won’t there be a line?” Hawke peeled herself away from the edge of the counter, making a quick move over to the refrigerator for no other reason than that the movement helped to settle some of the nervous energy she could feel building inside of her. She opened the door purposelessly, letting the cool air billow out against her over-heated skin.

“There’s a fountain around the corner,” he said drily. “I’m sure they can make use of that, if it’s a matter of some urgency.”

“One of the advantages of being male,” Hawke observed, trying too hard to sound casual. She didn’t know how it was that Fenris managed to speak over the phone with such seeming ease when it was costing her a tremendous amount of effort just to sound mildly composed. Just the sound of her heart was a deafening distraction.

“And surely one of the most advantageous.”

Hawke could hear Fenris’ smile as he spoke. It was pleasurable torture, knowing that he was smiling, but being left with only her imagination to supply an image of it. In her mind, it was devastating. She snatched a half-empty bottle of sauvignon blanc out of the fridge and let the door fall shut with a subdued thud.

“Yeah,” she said, wishing desperately for something remotely clever to say and coming up wretchedly short. “Yeah, probably.” Hawke closed her eyes for a pained moment, all too aware of exactly how strained her voice sounded.

Fenris waited silently, probably expecting her to say something with any actual substance. Mercifully, he did not let the silence stretch out for long. “Is now an alright time to talk? You sound preoccupied.”

Hawke exhaled slowly, her sigh breaking into a rough laugh at the end. “Sorry, I know.” She let herself laugh again, allowing her nerves to bleed into the sound. “I’m just a bit scattered right now. I wasn’t expecting you to call.”

“I did say I would,” said Fenris, sounding almost wary.

Hawke shook her head, cupping one hand around the chilled bottle of wine that sat on the countertop, a circle of condensation pooling at its base. “I know, I know,” she said hurriedly, wanting to strip that cautious edge from his voice as quickly as possible. “I just assumed you were speaking figuratively. I didn’t know that there were still people who used their phones as phones.”

Fenris’ amused breath puffed audibly against the receiver. “What else would one use it for?”

“A texting machine?” she ventured, comforted by the sound of his easy laughter. “An alarm clock? I don’t know. I’m oddly nervous right now.”

“Because I called you on the phone,” he said flatly, though a note of teasing was clearly audible. Hawke smiled helplessly, unable to stop herself.

“Possibly. There’s also the strong chance that I’ve developed a phone-related phobia, as well.” It was so much easier when she wasn’t pretending to be casual, when she wasn’t pretending that she was unaffected by him.

Fenris hummed thoughtfully, the vibration of it low and agreeable. “I could disconnect,” he drawled, “and send you a text message, if you’d be more comfortable.”

“I’ll muddle through somehow, thanks,” she said, matching his tone for dryness. “I like hearing your voice, anyway,” she added, thumbing the rubber stopper out of the wine bottle and letting it fall. She thought she heard a small intake of breath through the phone, but there was every chance that she had imagined it. Still, she liked to think that Fenris was blushing, just slightly, with his head bowed forward to hide his expression like he always seemed to do when she paid him a compliment. “So, what’s up?” she asked, when it seemed that an imagined blush was the only response that Fenris was likely to muster in a timely fashion. “Aside from hiding in the bathroom away from all the fabulous people, that is.”

He laughed again, very softly, in a private sort of way. “I called,” he began, “though apparently that was entirely the wrong approach, because I wanted to ask if you were available on Thursday.”

“Yes!” Hawke exclaimed, sounding far too eager. That was one of the many problems with talking on the phone: it was far more difficult to seem blasé than it was over text. She cleared her throat, taking a moment to rein in her enthusiasm before making another attempt at her reply. “It depends, actually. I might have plans in the afternoon, but I think my evening should be free.” It was better. Still not perfect, but better by a mile.

“I’m glad,” he said. “I would have chosen a more appropriate time to call, but I did want to catch you before you made other plans.”

Hawke lifted a clean glass from the drying rack beside the sink, an irrepressible smile on her lips. “Well, clearly my plan to make you believe that I have an actual social life has been successful. That’s a relief.”

“It’s not hard to believe that your company would be in high demand,” he said smoothly.

Hawke almost choked on a gulp of air, the tips of her ears burning with the vibrancy of her blush. “You have no idea how far that kind of blatant flattery will get you, Fenris,” she said once she’d sufficiently recovered. “So, what did you have in mind?”

“For Thursday, or in general?”

Hawke’s teeth nipped against her lower lip as she bit back a grin. “Thursday,” she clarified, pouring a thin stream of wine into her empty glass. “Unless you have something else you’re prepared to share with the class?”

“Some other time perhaps,” he said, with a faint note of barely disguised promise that threatened to send a shiver down Hawke’s spine. Her hand tightened around her glass as she brought it to her lips. “As for your intended question,” he continued, “the choice is yours. There is a halfway decent Antivan restaurant that’s not entirely out of your way, or, if you’d rather, we could go for drinks later on in the evening. Or, if you’re not entirely opposed to the outdoors, they’re showing a film in Woodrow Park just past dark.” He rattled off the list of options with a casual rapidity that suggested he’d given the matter a certain amount of prior consideration, if not some degree of rehearsal. Hawke smirked into her wine, her heart thudding heavily.

“I’d love to go to the park, actually,” she said after a moment’s consideration. “I’ve seen those flyers floating around for years now, but I’ve never gone to one myself.”

“Nor have I. It’s deeply unlikely that either of us will have seen this one, in any case. Some obscure horror film that’s over a half-century old, I believe.”

Hawke made a small sound of approval. “Ooh, I hope there’s a clumsy monster in a bad, rubber suit and whole lakes of terribly convincing fake blood.”

Fenris hummed. “I don’t expect you’ll be disappointed on either score; it’s called _The Blood Moon_. I hear bad things.”

“Looking forward to it. I’ll bring along some food, if you’ll take care of the wine and maybe a blanket?”

“I can agree to those terms. What are your feelings on red?”

Hawke opened her mouth to convey her very positive feelings, but was cut short when she overheard the sound of a thunderous hammering from Fenris’ side.

“What the fuck, man! You taking a shit or what the fuck!” The unfamiliar voice was deep, forceful. Hawke heard Fenris sigh, as though an enormous, angry man pounding on the door of the room he occupied was nothing more than a trifling annoyance.

Hawke clicked her tongue against the top row of her teeth. “Sounds like someone doesn’t want to take a piss in the fountain,” she said gravely.

The repressed tremor of Fenris’ laughter never failed to send a thrill of delight thrumming through her. “Evidently.”

“The fuck!” The impatient shout was followed by another rapid series of hard thuds against the door and a string of accompanying profanity that Hawke couldn’t quite make out over the knocking.

“Thursday, then?” Fenris said evenly, disregarding the noise.

“Thursday,” confirmed Hawke with a crisp nod that, of course, he could not see. “We can meet there, just at the corner of Hyacinth and 14th St.”

He proposed a time to meet that would allow them enough time to settle in before the movie started and Hawke gave another pointless nod as she replied, “I’ll see you then.” Smirking, she added, “You can tell me all about how the giant, angry man beating down the door over there decided to break your face in.”

“I’m sure I’ll manage,” said Fenris, unfazed. “Though it’s probably best not to test his patience any further, eh?”

“Agreed. I like your face the way it is.”

“You say what’s on your mind, I’ll give you that,” he chuckled, warmly enough that Hawke could feel it burn in the pit of her stomach. “I’ll see you soon, Hawke. Hopefully, with my face still intact.”

Hawke forced herself to put an end to the call promptly after she’d wished Fenris goodnight and he had responded in kind. She had long since passed an age where it was socially acceptable to linger over the ends of phone calls, fondly goading one another to hang up first, but she was still loath to say goodbye. There was a part of her—some clinging vestige of her foolish adolescence—that wanted to stay on the line just to see how long it would take for Fenris to hang up, as though that would give her some quantifiable measure of the degree of his feelings for her. Hawke felt unjustifiably mature for resisting that urge.

Likewise, she felt that it was quite mature that she did not immediately send a text to Isabela with all the details of what had transpired. It was her first instinct, of course, as Isabela was perhaps the only person she knew who would share her excitement in that moment. Indeed, it seemed entirely possible that Isabela’s excitement might even exceed her own, given that Isabela had taken an eager interest in Fenris’ affairs for years prior to Hawke’s involvement in them.

However, it struck Hawke that keeping Isabela fully apprised of her every interaction with Fenris might be a dangerous precedent to set. If all their conversations began and ended with him, Hawke worried that Isabela might dismiss her as the sort of person who was prone to vanishing into romantic relationships, prizing that bond above all others.

So, Hawke restrained herself, texting Isabela a link to an amusing parrot, instead. It seemed like the mature thing to do.

Of course, Fenris did enter into the conversation the next time that Hawke and Isabela saw each other, though it wasn’t until after they were both two beers deep, luxuriating on the deck of Isabela’s glass-bottomed boat.

The boat was still in its slip, lifting and falling only slightly with the small waves that came in so deep into the harbor. The air smelled faintly of decaying fish, as it always did along Kirkwall’s polluted shores, but Hawke found that she didn’t really mind it. The fairly unobtrusive stench of it was masked somewhat by the warm, familiar scent of sunscreen and the somehow comforting smell of her own sun-ripened skin. Hawke felt settled and easy, melted back onto the bench of _The Siren’s Call_ by the golden heat of the sun’s rays.

“We should do this every week,” Isabela proposed lazily. “Tipsy Tuesdays.” She was sprawled out across the long bench that ran along the portside of the boat. Hawke was on a bench opposite her, but the modest vessel was small enough that neither of them had to raise their voices much to be heard, even over the light, frothy pop music that played over the sound system.

It was the sort of music made to be carried on summer air, tangled up with a warm breeze. Songs about first loves and fast cars and short skirts baring tanned thighs. With her forearm thrown over her closed eyelids, Hawke let herself be reminded of days spent speeding heedlessly over overheated asphalt, of coarse Fereldan sand between her toes, of laughing until it ached while her friends tried to sing along with lyrics they’d gotten wrong a dozen times before. Being with Isabela always dragged her back like that: to a time when being happy had felt so effortless.

“Don’t you have tours on Tuesdays, though?” asked Hawke without removing her arm from over her eyes. “You might want to be sober for those. Bit illegal otherwise.”

“Not headed out until sunset. We’ll be sober by then.”

“Speak for yourself,” Hawke said, scratching absently at her bare navel. Neither she nor Isabela had dressed with any expectation of lying out in the sun, but they had both made adjustments to their clothing in an effort to prevent unfortunate tan lines. Isabela had cast aside her fluttering linen top almost instantaneously, leaving her in a florescent green bra and white cut-offs, the top button of which she’d undone to reveal even more of her torso to the sun. Hawke had followed her example, abandoning first her shoes, then socks, then shirt, until she was left in a similar state to Isabela.

Isabela rolled onto her side, her head cushioned on her folded arm as she looked over at Hawke. “Do you want another beer?” She gestured towards the boat’s well-stocked miniature fridge with her own empty bottle.

Hawke peered out from beneath her forearm, blinking into the sunlight as she glanced sidelong at Isabela. “Are you having one?”

Isabela’s teeth flashed brilliantly white in the sun. “You know I am, sweet thing.”

At Hawke’s nod, Isabela rose and went off in the direction of more alcohol. Hawke didn’t watch the process, instead sinking contentedly back onto the bench and letting the sunlight send a vivid play of red sparks across the inside of her eyelids. She could hear the sounds of preparation—a knife blade hitting gently against a plastic cutting board as Isabela sliced off fresh segments from a line, the clack and hiss of bottle tops pried off and clattering away, the sound of Isabela’s feet padding slowly across the deck.

Ice-cold glass pressed against Hawke’s exposed hipbone and she shot upright, crying out in shock. Isabela met her glare with a dazzling grin and an innocently proffered drink.

“Here you are, sweetness,” cooed Isabela as Hawke accepted the frosty bottle.

“Thank you, asshole,” grumbled Hawke, fighting back the smile that tugged at the corners of her lips.

Isabela cackled unapologetically, sauntering back to her side of the boat and collapsing gracefully onto the bench. She immediately began seeking out a more comfortable position, pulling her legs up onto the bench until the soles of her feet were pressed together, her bent knees falling to either side of her like she might start meditating at any moment. All the while, she watched Hawke with a keen sort of glint in her eye.

“I love this beer, don’t you?” Isabela declared before Hawke had even finished her first sip.

Hawke swallowed pointedly, meeting Isabela’s gaze. “Mm. It’s good,” she nodded, slowly turning the bottle in her hands to search the label for whatever point Isabela was wheedling towards. The name of the brewery was one Hawke recognized instantly.

“Do you know where I heard about it?” Isabela asked, not even attempting to sound casual.

Hawke knew. She lifted one of her eyebrows significantly and leveled Isabela with a frank look. “Where you _read_ about it, you mean?

Isabela did an appallingly bad impression of surprise. “Oh, I didn’t know you read _Hot Ice_ ,” she said, all delighted innocence. “But just for the articles, I’m sure.” Hawke scoffed, her lower lips pressed lightly against the rim of the bottle as she rolled her eyes. “And how is Fenris, by the way,” continued Isabela, wide-eyed as she fluttered her long lashes twice in quick succession. “Your public is just dying to know.”

“Oh, have I not mentioned?” said Hawke, matching the feigned disinterest in Isabela’s tone. “Fenris called yesterday. We’re going out this Thursday.”

Isabela hurled a stiff, weather-resistant throw pillow in Hawke’s direction, which she caught with a triumphant peal of laughter. “You. Coy. Little. Minx!” exclaimed Isabela, looking delighted and affronted all at once. “Why was I not immediately informed?”

Hawke didn’t even make an attempt to suppress her smile. It would have been fruitless, anyway. “I thought it would be more fun this way.”

During the nearly eighteen hours that had elapsed since Fenris had called her, Hawke had been aching to share the news with someone who would truly appreciate it. Charade had been congratulatory and supportive, as she always was, but she had never met Fenris herself and couldn’t really be expected to display more than the normal amount of enthusiasm. Hawke had certainly taken a girlish sort of pleasure in discussing Fenris with her cousin, but it was another thing entirely to talk about it with Isabela. Isabela had been there with Hawke when she’d seen Fenris for the first time, when the whole world had stopped to catch its breath. Isabela understood.

“This is fantastic,” said Isabela emphatically. “Sera owes me twenty dollars.”

“I wish I could say that I’m surprised that you’ve been placing bets on my love life,” mused Hawke, wrapping her arms tightly around the throw pillow Isabela had chucked at her, “but, really, I would have expected nothing less.”

“ _I_ had nothing but faith in you, sweet thing,” said Isabela loftily. “But, if you do not at least attempt to swirl your tongue around in that boy’s mouth this time, then I will have no choice but to recalibrate my entire belief system. There are some sins that even I can’t forgive.”

Hawke let out a little gust of airy laughter, though she couldn’t stop her mind from calling up a very intriguing mental image of herself finally intertwined with Fenris, their mouths moving easily together and their hands becoming increasingly bold. “Believe me, I am not letting that opportunity pass me by again,” she assured Isabela. “It just… wasn’t right last time. Too many prying eyes.”

“Just so long as you make it right _this_ time. This is not the time to go squandering opportunities. You might just have the chance to be the first person in living memory to catch a glimpse of _Fenris Leary_ naked.” Isabela leaned forward intently, her elbow propped on one of her knees. “That’s the dream, sweetness. You’ll be a legend in your own time.”

“Oh sure,” agreed Hawke, nodding solemnly, “that can be my legacy. I’m sure that, in fifty years, I’ll be telling my grandchildren all about it.”

“See, I know you’re joking,” said Isabela after taking a long swill of her drink, “but, if it were me, I’d rent out a billboard.”

Hawke probably wouldn’t say no to taking out a billboard, either, but something told her that Fenris might not like it very much. “Well, don’t get your hopes up too high just yet; I’m sure I’ll manage to find a way to drive him off before we get that far. I’ll update you on Friday, after I’ve spilled red wine down my shirt and belched right into his beautiful face.”

“Hey, wine down the front can be a highly effective seduction technique,” Isabela said, with an emphatic tilt of her bottle. “Your soaking wet shirt clinging to your flushed breasts as you dab at them with a damp cloth?” She made a show of pantomiming the gesture, patting her fingertips lightly between her own breasts with zealous enjoyment of her own performance. Her eyes flicked back up to Hawke. “He won’t be able to resist.”

Hawke tilted her head to one side, looking at Isabela with exaggerated awe. “I hope I never stop learning from you.”

Isabela reclined grandly in her seat and nodded once in gracious acceptance of a compliment well-deserved. “I _am_ a font of knowledge and indispensable wisdom, that’s true.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Besides,” shrugged Isabela, settling deeper against the back of the bench and pulling up her legs beside her, “it’s not as though you’re without other options to entertain. Even if you do manage to create a colossal shitshow out of everything with Fenris, there are other possibilities. Attractive ones, even. Like Anders.” She was shameless, really. Watching Hawke from across the boat, her eyes glittering and her mouth turned upwards at the corner as she steered the conversation just where she wanted it to go—ever the captain.

Hawke rolled her eyes. “Anders,” she said flatly, prompting Isabela to plunge onward.

Isabela smirked, clearly glad to proceed. “He asked about you, you know,” she said, her voice lowered like she was sharing a terribly salacious secret. “After you and Fenris slipped off into the darkness.” Isabela shook her head, clucking her tongue in feigned condemnation. “Two beautiful boys nipping at your heels,” she scolded, smooth as silk. “So greedy.”

Hawke took a long, slow pull of her beer, letting it warm slightly on her tongue for a moment before she swallowed it down. She hadn’t given much thought before to the fact that Anders might retain some sort of attraction to her. Admittedly, there had been sparks during their initial meeting at Undercity, but that had been years ago. She had more or less assumed that any interest he had expressed during their short conversation in the gallery had been purely out of spite for Fenris.

Truth be told, it was flattering that someone like Anders—who was handsome, and passionate, and successful, and, who, on all scores, seemed like someone worth impressing—had asked about her. Under different circumstances, Hawke might have found the information downright intriguing. As it was, however….

“What did you tell him?” she asked neutrally.

“The truth, of course. That it was the first time you’d been out together and I wasn’t sure how serious you could possibly be at that point.” Isabela shrugged. “I didn’t want to risk shattering your chances with him, just in case that might be something you’d like to explore more thoroughly later on. I wouldn’t dream of constraining a lady’s options.” She dropped her voice again, hushed and conspiratorial though it was just the two of them anywhere within sight. “So… are you interested?” One of her finely arched eyebrows lifted suggestively.

“He asked you to ask me that, didn’t he?” Hawke grinned, catching on.

“Maybe,” said Isabela, her sing-song lilt dragging out the word.

“Anders seems nice,” Hawke said after a moments consideration, because that seemed like a diplomatic way to begin and because it was true. “And he’s good-looking, and clever, and, if memory serves, one hell of a kisser. But, I’m not exactly _looking_ for a relationship, you know?” Hawke realized that that probably sounded entirely like a lie, given her marked and decided interest in Fenris, but it was true nonetheless. She heaved a little sigh and endeavored to clarify. “The only reason I’m bothering with any of it now is because of Fenris,” she explained. “If I hadn’t seen _him_ , then I’d be sitting here, dead-ass single and completely positive that I wasn’t ready to date anyone, no matter how good-looking or smart or great at kissing.”

Isabela was watching her with a curious expression on her face, unguarded but somehow inscrutable at the same time. Hawke wasn’t quite sure what to make of it, or how to interpret the brief compression of Isabela’s lips into a tight line. It passed in an instant, replaced by an exaggerated look of deep concentration. “That might be too much for me to send to Anders in one text,” Isabela said contemplatively. “Do you have something nice and pithy that I could relay? In the neighborhood of five syllables, perhaps?”

Hawke huffed out a laugh. “Tell him: he’s hot, but I’m just super-duper into Fenris,” she summarized, taking a wild stab at sounding appropriately teenaged and gossipy.

Isabela made a show of looking bemused as she ticked off the syllables with her fingers before, overwhelmed, she shook her head. “Well, that _was_ pithier, but I’ll still have to put it through another round of edits. I’m sure I’ll be able to cobble together something satisfactory.”

Hawke, who had begun diverting herself by blowing short puffs of air over the rim of her beer to create mournful echoes, paused the activity long enough to ask, “How close are you and Anders, anyway?” She arched an eyebrow dramatically, let out another ominous-sounding puff of air across the mouth of the bottle. “Should I be questioning your allegiances?”

“My only allegiance is to myself,” Isabela said. It was possible that she might have been quoting something, but Hawke couldn’t say what. “But, don’t worry, sweet thing: I’m not going to spill any of your juicy little secrets. Your exotic misadventures are no one’s business but your own, I say.” Her grin unfurled slowly. “And mine, of course, but I’m very discreet.”

Hawke nodded. “That’s what I thought, but I didn’t want to… to put you in the position of having to keep something from a friend, is all. You and Anders seem to have a lot of history, so….” She trailed off, shrugging her shoulders noncommittally.

Isabela thrust out her lower lip, her head bobbling up and down slightly as if she were giving the matter careful consideration before speaking. “We’re not close, exactly, but we _do_ run in roughly the same circles,” she said. “Or we did. He’s become a bit of a wet blanket now that they’ve put all those fancy letters after his name. But I will say this for the boy: he knew how to scratch an itch, once.” She inclined her head towards Hawke. “Well, you remember.”

Hawke shifted a little where she sat, feeling that perhaps she ought to explain her own brief history with Anders more thoroughly. She suspected that Isabela had gotten the wrong end of the stick somewhere along the way, but it seemed nit-picky to insist upon the fact that, no, she did not know how successfully Anders was able to scratch itches. So, she settled for nodding in understanding while she went in for another swill of beer. It was mostly suds at this point.

“It’s a shame, really,” continued Isabela, staring out over the rows of boats that rocked in the harbor, “there’s not enough people who take advantage of the nightlife in Kirkwall—every little defection hurts. Subtract the committed marrieds,” she said, cringing at the word _committed_ like it was something that had gone rotten at the rear of her refrigerator, “the college kids, the goody-goodies, the workaholics, and the commuters, and, really, there’s just a handful of _real_ people living in this city. It’s always the same faces on repeat. You’ll see, now that you’re one of us.”

“Oh, _finally_ ,” sighed Hawke, collapsing back onto the bench and settling into an easy sprawl. “I’m in with the in-crowd.”

“Damn right,” Isabela said firmly, lowering her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose just enough that she could send a significant glance at Hawke over the top of their heart-shaped frames. “Even Varric knows your name now. You’re officially somebody.”

There was that name again. “Should it worry me that I have never met this person?” mused Hawke absently, rolling onto her side so that she could look at Isabela without all the bother of sitting upright.

“Oh, you will,” said Isabela with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Everyone does, sooner or later. And, once you’ve got his curiosity piqued, he’ll probably make it sooner rather than later.”

Hawke chuckled softly. “And _that’s_ not the tiniest bit sinister?”

Isabela made a thoughtful sound in the back of her throat. “Mm, a bit,” she conceded. “But, I wouldn’t worry your pretty head, sweetness. Hell, if he likes you, you’re more likely to walk away with a job offer than anything else.”

“But what could possibly be more fulfilling than running unpredictable and bizarre errands for complete strangers?” Hawke gasped, tenting her fingers against her chest as if the mere thought of seeking another form of gainful employment horrified her.

Isabela snorted with amusement. “Well, if you ever _are_ looking for a change of vocation, I can think of a few places that would be thrilled to get their grubby hands on you. My friend’s an AD for Bellitanus Films and she says they always have an eye peeled for fresh talent.”

“I don’t know what that is,” Hawke said slowly, tilting her head over to one side, “but I’m assuming porn.”

“Erotica,” insisted Isabela, jabbing her bottle pointedly in Hawke’s direction. “High production values, a select crew of talented performers, actual scripts. It’s more than just your classic gangbang, straight-bait, gay-for-pay nonsense with the pleather cat-suits and the will you stop laughing?”

Hawke turned her head, smothering her cackling laughter breathlessly against her bicep. When she was able to inhale steadily, she turned back to Isabela with great composure and said, “Thank you for thinking of me. But, I have a rule now not to do any work that I’d be too embarrassed to put on my CV. Learned that lesson the hard way after wasting four months selling pleasure aids at Exotic Wonders.”

“Exotic Wonders!” exclaimed Isabela with obvious delight. She leaned in raptly towards Hawke, as though frightened that a moment’s inattention might lead to a shred of the conversation slipping by her. “On Pike Street?” Hawke shoulders trembled with the effort of holding back her laughter, but she managed a nod. Isabela clapped her hands down against her thighs, her face practically beaming. “That is incredible! I can’t believe that we never crossed paths; I’m there _constantly_. Why did you _ever_ stop working there? What’s their employee discount like?”

“It wasn’t bad, actually. Forty percent off retail.”

“I should work there; I’d save an absolute fortune,” said Isabela thoughtfully. “Did you get anything good?”

Truthfully, Hawke had always been too self-conscious to really take advantage of the discount and, even at forty percent off, most of the more elaborate pieces were still a little rich for her blood. “A few vibrators,” she admitted, “two or three dildos, and a flogger.” Hawke shrugged, her face warming slightly and a flush of color rushing to the very tips of her ears. “Nothing too extravagant.”

“A flogger?” asked Isabela, looking surprised and more than a little intrigued. “Not what I would have pegged you for.”

Hawke nodded knowingly. “Elk leather. Soft thud, perfectly balanced.” She held her drink aloft in a lazy toast. “Never used it once.”

“Well, if you’d ever like the opportunity…,” leered Isabela, with a theatricality that seemed moments away from resorting to actual eyebrow wagging.

Hawke smothered another uncontrollable burst of laughter against her bent arm. She was definitely going to need another beer before the afternoon was over. “Again,” she managed, once she could safely speak, “thank you for thinking of me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up Next: Hawke and Fenris go on a date! Alone! Together!


End file.
